Forever Yours, Sherlock
by Revella
Summary: Sherlock has been resurrected, to his career and his old life- but faces the consequences of the Fall. John is Sherlock's only weakness, and his greatest strength. New enemies are rising from the ashes of the old, and old lives are finding new destinies. Can Sherlock protect the one who matters most- and solve the greatest case of all - love? S3 Rewrite, NOVEL LENGTH STORY!
1. Chapter 1 Remember

** Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns my heart! Please enjoy, it has been a pleasure to write this. Chapters will be posted in pairs, once a week or so. If some of these chapters come across as a tease, it'll be worth it in the end! Please enjoy, and review if you want! Thank you!**

* * *

**Forever Yours**

by

S.J.H, "Revella"

(Takes place during The Empty Hearse, the first two weeks after his return to London, and then the story diverges from there.)

**Chapter One **

** "Remember"**

Sherlock stood in the early morning sunlight spilling across the floor of his flat, unmoving and silent. The puzzle Mycroft had resurrected him for took physical form upon the wall he faced; the shot up smiley face barely visible. Dozens of papers, pictures, handwritten notes and snippets of dates, names and times connected in a convoluted shape he struggled to bring into focus. He could not yet fathom the pattern- he knew it was just outside his reach.

The warmth of the rare autumn sun had yet to heat his blood, his mind far away, spinning and chaotic. It was full of dead ends, and tangents of thought irrelevant to his current case. Pushing aside distractions was difficult this morning, resulting in the detective not sleeping the night before, and his place on the spot he was standing was long accustomed to his unmoving weight. He hadn't noticed the arrival of dawn, or the lessening of the chill in the air that permeated his flat. Silence hung heavily in the rooms he used to share with Dr Watson; the other man's absence was annoying and glaringly obvious.

Despite his "death" two years prior, Sherlock felt like no time had elapsed at all since his return to 221 B Baker Street. Papers, case files, and half finished experiments lay exactly where he had left them. A thick layer of dust still clung to random surfaces throughout the flat, missed by Mrs Hudson on her sporadic cleaning missions.

A short week had passed since his rather emotional and anticlimactic return to London, and the life he left behind. As eager to see John as he had been, Sherlock had badly miscalculated the effect his return would have on his former friend and flatmate. Former seemed to be the correct word now to describe John; his refusal to accept Sherlock's return and the inherent betrayal it carried was beyond his current limits. For betrayal it was. Hindsight making his judgment clearer, Sherlock knew that his lack of trust in John's silence after he faked his death was indeed a betrayal to the very loyal doctor. For all that he needed John's grief to be real in order to convince the world that he really was dead, not contacting him sooner had been a grave mistake.

Mycroft had been right to scoff at Sherlock's expectations. John was not willing to leap back into the game. So unwilling was he that John's very hard head had damn near broken his nose. Sherlock reflexively twinged at the memory, so clear was the recollection. One of the few drawbacks to having an excellent memory bulwarked by a mind-palace was that the painful memories were as clear as the good ones. In the last two years, Sherlock had held on tightly to his memories of John Watson. John smiling, laughing; the relaxed slouch of his shoulders under an astoundingly atrocious Christmas jumper as he sat in his chair. One memory held in perfect clarity was of John holding the Czech assassin Golem at gunpoint, threatening his life if he harmed his partner. A face full of calm menace and steely resolve hovered at the edges of Sherlock's mind as the mere mention summoned it from the depths.

Sherlock sighed, the small sound escaping before he could stop it.

_ "You're becoming positively maudlin, old man! Snap out of it and focus!"_ he thought to himself sternly. "_You were a capable detective for half a decade before John Watson walked into the pathology lab at St Bart's- and you can damn well continue on without him!"_

Sherlock had retired his previous career as a consulting detective to become something far more sinister during his forced sabbatical two year earlier. He had become a spy, an infiltrator, smuggler, and occasional hit man as the situation demanded. He created multiple roles while he traversed the breadth and depth of Europe rooting out Moriarty's crime syndicate. Disappearing into the many personas he developed for the hunt, Sherlock had turned his formidable skills to finding every last remnant. Each discovery of an operative had lead to either a swift arrest, or an even quicker death- at the hands of Mycroft's people, or as a result of Sherlock himself stepping in. He had let himself fade away to the barest, leanest version of himself - an elemental force of deadly efficiency and ruthless, cold detachment. For days, up to weeks at a time, he would become what was needed to complete the mission: the grifter, the con man, a drunken smuggler, and even a nameless, brutal, high ranking disciple of Moriarty. Only once a mission was complete, and in the brief span of time traveling from one dreary city to another to start a new mission, did Sherlock emerge as himself again.

Alone, exhausted, and resolutely determined to succeed, Sherlock would find respite in the depths of his mind palace, and the memories within. He had spent he entirety of his life building his mind palace, so much so that it bore no relation anymore to that moniker. Many practitioners in the art of "mind building" limited themselves to a room, a house, a foolishly opulent mansion. Sherlock had endeavored to build London itself. There he would tread the unswept floors of his flat, hear the bustle of London's streets as he walked Trafalagr Square; pace the chilly halls of St Bart's. The Underground in all its complexities, the ancient streets and alleys, from St James' Palace to Westminster, the Thames to the sea; all a part of the underwhelming named palace within his mind. Each street, home, room, office; all of it held a memory, a recollection, fact, scent, sound. Everything Sherlock deemed important and worth keeping was stored safely away- forever.

On the rare occasion a room became full, or a shelf too cluttered, would Sherlock either delete a memory, or far more likely, expand. With a tensely orchestrated shuffle of mental blueprints, a new room or surface would spontaneously appear where needed. All he needed to do was walk the path to that new place but once, and he would never forget his way back. Once Sherlock stored something, it was there to stay.

His city was not empty- it was filled with moments frozen in time, people stilled to an instant of crucial importance, like a single note held at the sound of perfection. Those memories and moments lined the streets, the rooms and places of their relative origins; Molly stood in the lonesome morgue at St Bart's, Lestrade sat still at his desk at Scotland Yard, even Mrs Hudson at her sink, washing dishes.

Here too was the exception to his rigid control- John Watson. Everywhere Sherlock went, the spectre of John followed. John was with him every step- in his chair at the flat, John standing at the door of a cab waiting on him; John by his side as they raced through London's streets.

It would be to these stilled moments Sherlock retreated to the most. Mind spinning, thoughts without anchor or purpose would drive him to the edge of control. Sherlock would find that voice- John's voice. That voice that would calm his racing heart and mind, focus his genius and push him farther than he had ever gotten on his own. Sherlock would settle his restless soul into the mental facsimile of his green leather chair before the hearth, and watch as John would read his papers. His bare feet crossed and tucked close to the chair, his head buried in the Guardian, and humming quietly to himself as he came across something interesting. Many times Sherlock had oiled his bow strings, or tuned his violin, or even just steepled his fingers under his chin and unabashedly contemplated the wonder that was John Watson.

At times John would point out something he found interesting, and Sherlock would lock away the sound of his voice. A gentle sound that even when frustrated or annoyed never lost that quality Sherlock had come to define as kindness. John Watson was a kind man, unapologetically loyal, and brave beyond expectation. Quickly after that first case with the serial killer cabbie he had known the full measure of John's character. John was, to Sherlock, the only truly good man he had ever met. Or would ever met again.

He rested in the sunlight, remembering.


	2. Chapter 2 Mary

** Chapter Two **

** "Mary"**

Mary stood in the door of the bathroom, throwing her brilliantly red coat over her shoulders. Her gaze was drawn to the man rinsing his face in the sink.

"I'm off to work love, see you there?" she queried softly.

"Hmm?" John relied, his face covered by a hand towel.

"I'll see you there? The office?"

"Oh yeah. I'll be along in a bit. I've got an errand to run before my first appointment." he replied slowly, taking extra care to drape the damp towel neatly along its rack.

Mary knew that tone of his- the sound of his voice that meant he had a lot on his mind. She knew her doctor well, and the deliberate way he moved, his intense expression let her know his "errand" was much more than that, and weighed heavily upon him.

The last few months John's attitude had been steadily improving. He had stopped pretending to be okay, and had begun to truly be alright. The crippling pain at his partner's apparent suicide had finally begun to lessen its grip on his life. Mary knew she could only take credit for some of his improvement. John's own natural resiliency had begun to put him back to rights.

Having met him almost ten months ago at his new offices had been one of the best days of her life. She had known instinctively that Dr Watson was broken, hemorraghing inside and he needed to have his life saved. He had made the bare efforts of existing- washing, dressing, walking to work, going through his appointments methodically but without any expression of emotion. Work, home, sleep, repeat.

After of few weeks of working with him, Mary had made the the decision to ask him out. John had just stood there, as if he had forgotten that people still did things like that, going on dates. His expression had been blank, and she had to repeat herself. To her surpise, John had shook his head as if to clear it, and then, even more surprisingly, had said yes.

A quiet night out at a nearly empty pub had been less of date and more of therapy session. Mary knew very well John's past with the late Sherlock Holmes, as their escapades the year before had been hard to miss. Even Mary had grieved when she heard that Holmes had committed suicide by falling from the roof at St Bart's. Hearing the story directly from someone who had lived it was heart wrenching, and the strength of the man she sat with was dazzling. She spent the night teaching John how to have a conversation again- he hadn't felt the need or the desire to really talk to anyone in a long time. By the end of that night, and after several empty pints, Mary was satisfied that the real John was still alive, buried under the trauma of Sherlock's death. One day he would find himself again, and she wanted to be with him every step of the way.

"Ok love. I'll see you there," Mary told John, walking over to kiss him gently on the forehead before leaving. Since his dramatic return the week earlier, Sherlock had alot to answer for, and she knew John was in the mindset to make him pay for it. She knew exactly where he was going, and she hoped for everyones' sake that both men would be able to survive what was coming and still be whole on the other side.

John stood next to his dresser, and with a deep sigh reached for his clothes. He had a ghost to confront, and putting it off would only make it harder.


	3. Chapter 3 Shattered

**Chapter Three**

** "Shattered"**

"Sherlock, wooh-hoo! Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson called softly, lightly rapping her knuckles on the opened door. "Are you going to stand there all morning, or should I make you a cuppa?"

Sherlock still stood in the same spot he had occupied since before dawn, facing his puzzle on the wall. He snapped back from the depths of his palace, and focused dry eyes on his landlady. apparently he hadn't been blinking while away, and from the stiffness he felt all over, he hadn't moved either.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. A cup of tea would be sufficient, as long as some biscuits accompany it." he said coldly, yet with his customary wink softening his reply. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him before retreating back down the stairs to her flat.

Sherlock stretched, raising his arms high above his head, and bouncing lightly on his feet to wake himself up. He'd never act this silly with company, but as Mrs Hudson wouldn't be back for several minutes, he felt free to shake out his muscles and chase the wayward thoughts from his mind. He quickly ceased his antics as deep spasms of pain radiated from the deep bruises and cracked ribs he had received from the brutal Serbian enforcer two weeks past. His wounds had yet to fully heal, and he had quite typically forgotten about his injuries, and only when he moved carelessly was he reminded.

He was pleased that he'd retained enough of his wits to distract his abuser before the iron pipe had been brought into play. Impatient with his brother's obvious lack of concern, Sherlock had let spill the secret of the adulterous Serbian housewife, which was enough of a catalyst to get the brute out of the room and way from his aching torso. He had managed to get himself out of harm's way without lifting a finger. Mycroft had thought he was clever, sneaking into the compound the way he had. What was really clever was waiting for news of his completed final mission absorb up the food chain of his brother's organization, staging a break in, and running just to get caught. Knowing a beating was standard, and that his brother would never impersonate someone low on the criminal hierarchy, he knew Mycroft would be in that room too. He had just overestimated his brother's concern for his welfare. The tacit endorsement of the enforcer's beating to such a degree was something of a surprise. He knew Mycroft's perverse sense of humor could be inconvenient, especially to Sherlock, but he still grew annoyed when thinking back to the day of his "rescue". His still sore muscles and the partially healed ribs wouldn't let him forget either.

The sound of a cab drawing up to the curb distracted him from mentally berating Mycroft further. Sherlock wasn't expecting his brother for another hour. Mycroft was never early. Late, often; early, never.

_"A client?"_ thought Sherlock, his blood stirring at the thought of a new case to divert his frustration from the one weighing down his wall. He went to the window, but whoever it was was already inside and closing the inner door. The bell hadn't been rung, and there had been no knock either, so who was it? Mycroft never waltzed in during the day, he delighted in being annoying and making Sherlock or Mrs Hudson open the door. Whoever it was had a key...

_"Whoever it is has a key...!"_, he screamed inside his head. If it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to freak out, he did in the nanosecond it took him to realize who was slowly coming up the stairs to his flat. _"Am I dressed, where's my socks?! No socks, wearing my robe, do I smell? When did I last take a shower?! Dammit man focus he's here!"_

"Ah, John. Do come in. Mrs Hudson just went for tea, I'm certain we can arrange a cup for you as well." Sherlock was impressed and proud that his voice was so calm, as if the last two years, two weeks, and one well aimed head butt hadn't occurred.

Sherlock turned to the doorway, where his recent mental obsession was carefully removing his gloves. He nervously glanced at John's hands, wondering if a repeat of last week was about to happen. He'd take his punches, but the nose was off limits and he would defend it. Sherlock was again glad of his emotional control, as the sight of John was enough to make his heart leap in his chest.

_"Freshly shaven, no mustache thank GOD!- dark clothes picked out carefully, tense shoulders, circles under his eyes...he hasn't slept. Why hasn't he slept?"_ he ran through his observations almost idly from habit, _" leaner, more muscles, staying healthy for Mary, regular office hours but no sleep..."_

John cleared his throat, "No tea thanks, I'll have some at the office. Just came by to...yeah...I came by to talk...", his voice trailed off into nothingness, his eyes skating around the room, from the case on the wall, to the lovingly maintained violin perched up like a person on Sherlock's chair. Everywhere but at the man he'd come to see.

Sherlock risked a step closer. "John, come in, have a seat?" he was within touching distance now, and with all his self control he withstood the urge to reach out and just feel him- feel the body heat and strength that separated a cold memory from the reality of his beloved doctor. His fingers twitched, and it was the only betrayal of his current state he would allow.

John couldn't avoid him anymore, he was too close. His eyes drifted over the tall, leanly muscled frame of the man he'd thought so long dead. Over a head taller than himself, John had to tip his head back just to see the detective's face. He looked into the most brilliantly beautiful eyes he had ever seen. A miraculous blend of blue, green, and true, real gold combined into eyes that were literally breathtaking. Eyes that could, and did, convey a myriad of thoughts and emotions so clearly to anyone who knew the younger man well. Skin still palest white, a faint, vague hint of freckles, and a wild crown of gorgeous, untamable curls graced the head of the most intelligent human he'd ever met.

It was like a punch in the gut, looking into those eyes. John's righteous anger was swept aside by a tidal wave of joy, grief, and disbelief. Awe and an unnamable emotion flooded through him, as if electricity was building a charge under his skin. His thoughts and carefully chosen words vanished beneath this sensation, and he swayed slightly forward, buoyed by what he was feeling. His heart started to beat faster, his senses narrowed down to just those eyes. The younger man was so close he could smell the oil he used on the violin bow, the soap from some distant shower. His own eyes began to water, so long did he gaze at this man. The man Fate had cruelly taken away, and then so capriciously tossed back. John struggled for words, any words to free him from this moment that he felt like he was drowning in.

"John?" came that voice; deep, melodic, beautiful. A voice of commanding strength, that could express everything from cold detachment to violent fury with a clarity unmatched by any other voice John had ever heard. He shivered, and he found himself a step closer to Sherlock, a step so close he could lift his hand and place it on the detective's chest.

Which he had! John felt the heat, the lean strength beneath the flat of his hand. Sherlock's heart beat strongly under his palm, hard and tempo increasing. John stared at his hand, stretching out his fingers and gently pressing the tips deeper into Sherlock's night shirt.

"John...", This time it was a whisper, as Sherlock breathed in the presence of this person he held so dear. He lowered his head, til his curls lightly brushed against the forehead of the other man. They both breathed in again, together. Held it, as gentle tension slowed time and bound them closer. Only the pressure of John's fingers on his chest grounded Sherlock, as his control shattered and his emotions escaped. Tears gathered, then gently began to fall down his pale cheeks, to match the rainstorm brewing in his heart.

A single tear fell from Sherlock's chin, and landed on John's wrist. John stared at it, lost as how that crystalline drop had gotten there. He lifted his eyes from his hand, and saw the impossible.

Sherlock Holmes, the most cynical, detached, ruthless and emotionless man John had ever known, was weeping. Silent, and almost helplessly, he cried. Heavenly eyes overflowed, tears winding down the strong planes of his face to fall unnoticed to the floor. It was if he didn't notice his own state so focused was he on the doctor.

John's other hand lifted from his side, without prompting. He laid it against Sherlock's cheek, cupping him closer, letting the taller man's forehead rest fully against his own. The hand he held to the other's heart flowed up his shoulder, along his neck to gently hold Sherlock's face between his palms.

"Sherlock...shhhhuusshh now, Sherlock sherlock sherlock-" his name became a litany of everything he had no words to convey to the shattered man before him.

His name seemed to be the release valve, for what was likened to a rainstorm was now a torrent. Voiceless sobs shook the taller man, tears a river unstoppable in the flood of all that he'd been repressing. His control wiped away, pride gone, Sherlock was left bare before John Watson.

"Oh God, Sherlock... breathe, just breathe!... I'm sorry I didn't want the tea, I'll have some. C'mon Sherlock, sshhhhh...it's okay now, I swear it's okay now!" words that echoed from a distant moment, said once by the man he now held weeping to his shoulder.

Gently he guided Sherlock to the couch, callously brushing stacks of paper to the floor. There he sat Sherlock down, the younger man unaware he'd even been moved. His hands gripped tightly to John and refused to let go. The older man sat next to him, and at loss, he gathered the lanky detective to his chest. To his surprise Sherlock turned into him, curling up like the child John was certain he had never been allowed to be. Arms wrapping tightly around John's neck and shoulders, Sherlock buried his face into the crook of the other man's neck and continued to cry. His knees drew up into the back of the couch, his feet tucking into the spaces between the seats. There he wept, quiet and desperate. He wept like he had never learned how; ragged, tortured breaths, face scrunched up tight, red and splotchy and frankly a bloody mess. Sherlock Holmes wept like a man freed from Hell and fearing to return.

This was not how John had expected this conversation to go. Fully intent on saying his piece, and maybe even hearing Sherlock's side of things, John knew that he was a fool for believing anything with Sherlock would be so easy. Though this explosion of emotion was so far removed from expectation that he relied instead on instinct. He did what his healer's heart told him- he held firmly to the shaking form in his arms, murmuring nonsense words of comfort. It was if Sherlock had shattered. One moment his control perfect, then the next it was torn asunder. John had the feeling that his one gentle touch, instead of the punches he had thrown last week, was what did it. So strong was the need to care for his detective - yes, his detective - that his own emotions quieted into the background of his heart.

Sherlock was caught up in the maelstrom, unaware and uncaring of where he was. He held tightly to John, a lifeline in the nightmare of emotions he was drowning in. The smaller man was stronger than he looked, his resolve unwavering. Sherlock wept out twenty four months worth of stress, fear, loneliness and loss. John's patient shoulders bore it all. Sherlock hadn't know to what depth he was capable of feeling, and he was afraid he might never return to the man he was before his Fall.

Gradually, Sherlock's sobs began to lessen, the tides receding. Exhausted, spent, he cried his last tears onto John's now wet jacket. He was beyond tired, and he had never felt so empty. The warmth of the man who held him stole into the emptiness, and lulled him into a slumber he sorely needed.

So there was John Watson, late for work, sitting on the couch of the greatest mind alive, holding said man as he wept, and now slept, on top of him. He felt no urge to move, and knew Mary would rearrange his schedule without asking. Smart woman, was Mary. It was in this position that Mrs Hudson found them, holding the tea tray next to the coffee table. She had a silly grin on her face as she lightly settled the tea service on the table before leaving as quietly as she had come in. John laughed quietly, knowing it was entirely possible that the rumors were about to get much worse than they had ever been.


	4. Chapter 4 Mycroft

**Chapter Four **

**"Mycroft"**

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway of his little brother's flat, eyeing the men intangled on the couch. For once, he was actually at a loss for words. This scene explained the pained look Mrs Hudson had given him before waving him up the stairs. It was obvious something significant had happened. Mycroft was certain his brother hadn't been held like that since he was a child barely out of infancy. He was equally certain that Sherlock wasn't up to discussing the terrorist plot he'd been resurrected to deal with. He was in fact sound asleep in the arms of John Watson. The doctor was awake, his face a study in conflicting emotions and thoughts. Confusion and grief were evident, and anger hovered about his shoulders and mouth. Mycroft was confused as to why Dr Watson would be cuddling with Sherlock if he was mad at him, until he caught the doctor's gaze and realized the anger was directed at him. Surprise briefly moved the elder Holmes, and he broke eye contact to look about the room. The sensation of having Dr John Watson mad at him was somewhat unnerving. Dr Watson had been enraged at Mycroft before, but this anger was entirely new in its intensity. Mycroft had a hunch that it had to do with Sherlock's two year absence from Watson's life- and that the blame was being firmly placed on his shoulders. He looked again at the man who held his brother so protectively, and smiled slightly.

"As he seems to be otherwise 'engaged'", Mycroft stated softly, "do tell my brother when he awakens that I shall return in an hour. It's early enough yet for our appoinment."

John didn't reply, just bent his head in the direction of the door with a look on his face that clearly left no doubt that he wanted the elder Holmes gone. Mycroft turned and slipped quietly down the stairs. He pulled out his mobile and began typing.

** Anthea, dear, please draw the car around. We shall be returning to Baker Street in an hour. Find us a suitable place to eat in this dreadful part of town, will you? -MH**


	5. Chapter 5 John

**Chapter Five**

**"John"**

John was loath to admit it, but his arms were beginning to tire. The man he held was so deeply asleep he was absolutely limp, drooping in his lap. The dead weight of the younger man was oddly appealing though. John's legs were falling asleep, and his arms were starting to strain from holding Sherlock up, but he didn't care. Sherlock was in a state John hadn't seen him in before (while sober); naturally asleep and starting to snore. Little wisps of air kept fluttering on John's neck, tickling. He leaned his head forward a couple of degrees, his lips against Sherlock's warm neck, and breathed the smell of him in. It filled his lungs, burning him in an electric current to the tips of his toes.

"_How is this real? He was dead, I saw him die. Smelled the blood in the cold wet air, felt the limpness of his arm muscles. Sherlock was dead. My world stopped. He was gone, and now he's here. I'm holding him. There was a hole in my life when he was gone. And now" _John's thoughts were racing, spiraling. Caught in a loop between disbelief that he had Sherlock back, the man he held proof positive it wasn't a dream and the thought that he had no clue what to do next. His life had been on a new path, one he chose whole heartedly. He made the decision to pull himself out of the misery, pain and horror, and to try being a person again. To try to be himself again. It had been hard, almost as hard as the first few weeks after the Fall. Those weeks after Sherlock had left was nothing but a nightmare blur of indistinct memories. The funeral was the one thing he remembered clearly, and the plea he'd made to his best friend's grave. He had been ready to sell his soul, make any bargain, to have Sherlock back.

His grief had been too much to bear- he let his body keep him alive in the early days. Muscle memory of how to eat, sleep, get dressed all had been habit, and he let his mind and heart disengage. Let his body take over. He was just a passenger, uninterested in anything but breathing through the pain. Living was exhausting, and he couldn't remember how to exist without Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered one day the crushing immobility he had suffered walking up the stairs of 221B. It had caught him on the landing, and he was stuck. He couldn't go forward up the stairs, he couldn't make his legs move. The flat above was quiet, empty. Sherlock wasn't there, he would never be there again. His hands had begun to shake, and sweat broke out all over his body. His experience told him it was a panic attack, but he could do nothing to stop it. It was an epiphany of horrible consequence Sherlock was dead and he would never, ever be coming back. And so John Watson broke, like lightning splitting a tree he was ripped apart by forces he couldn't control. He had no idea how long he had stood there before he came back to his senses kneeling on the landing, stinking of sweat and fear. His mind was clear, he felt expunged of grief and despair. He knew it was still there, but his mind was free enough to realize that he had to leave. He couldn't stay here and survive. So he slowly, carefully pulled himself back together, and went to speak to Mrs. Hudson.

John snapped back from his memories. Dwelling on the bad times wasn't healthy. And now his universe was changed again. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Alive and in his arms. His Sherlock. His Sherlock.

John wondered at his willingness to hold Sherlock the way he was. The two of them had never been overly demonstrative, but neither had withdrawn from the occasional contact. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock had always been the one to initiate contact by grabbing his face and spinning him in circles, touching his shoulder or back to guide him through the dark chasing after baddies. For a man who claimed to abhor needing people, he would reach out and touch John without hesitation. As if he hadn't thought at all that John would mind. John had often wondered if Sherlock even noticed he was doing it. Casual touches, fingers skimming along his arm or the back of his hand. Standing so very close, eyes intent and focused on John's. John hadn't even noticed that he didn't mind! He hadn't noticed how he would orient himself in a room to always be in line of sight of Sherlock. How he would change his stance to keep himself between Sherlock and potential danger, or even how he would stand by Sherlock's side when confronted by angry suspects or idiotic police women. John had never noticed while Sherlock was still alive; after his death John had poured over his memories, and seen the truth. That when the rumors started about the two of them being an item, they had merely reflected the truth people were seeing in how Sherlock and John interacted together. In every sense of the word they had been a couple; full of unrealized potential. It had made John angry when he looked back at their time together angry that he hadn't seen how he was feeling, and angry that he didn't know what he would have done about it. John wasn't lying when he said he wasn't gay he had never been attracted to men before in his life. And then he had laughed at himself Sherlock Holmes was less of a man and more superhuman. Sherlock was so beyond the Commonality of Man that John didn't even think sexuality would stop how he felt about Sherlock. He knew he never noticed how other men looked, and that he was still attracted to women.

John shifted in the seat, his legs now fully asleep and tingling. His absence from work would be inexcusable if he stayed here any longer, and he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to get impatient and come back early. He didn't think that being in the same room as Mycroft Holmes was a good idea right now; he may not still be enraged as he had been at Sherlock, but he had no trouble staying mad at Mycroft Holmes. He knew that Mycroft would have talked Sherlock out of contacting him while he was gone, by spouting out that nonsense of "don't get involved". John gently lifted and twisted himself out from beneath the younger Holmes, laying him down on the couch cushions. He grabbed the blanket that still graced the back of his red armchair, and tossed it over the slumbering detective. Sherlock didn't even stir, so out was he.

John spied Sherlock's phone on the coffee table, and picked it up. He slid the screen open, and opened up a new text draft.

** Mycroft will be here soon. -JW**

Not knowing what else to say, he flipped screens to set up an alarm to go off 20 minutes from now. He figured that would give Sherlock time to compose himself before his brother came back. He went back to the text draft and put the mobile back down next to the tea. He would've written a note, but doing so in the apartment with Mycroft Holmes due to return was not a good idea. Rather not have Mycroft sniping at Sherlock about "love notes". Having found them together like Mycroft had was bad enough.

John took one last look around the flat he had once called home, finding that he still missed it. Now that Sherlock was back, the grief was dissipating, but hurt and confusion was taking its place. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions - to Mary and the future he had planned, and to this chaotic, exhilarating life with the man who slept before him. So strong was the urge to stay that John grew alarmed.

Feeling like he was skipping out early on a one night stand, John quickly turned and all but ran down the steps and out the front doors. Feeling like a coward, he hailed the first cab he saw. Giving the cabbie directions to his offices, he refused to look behind him at 221B. He may have removed himself from the flat, but he knew where his mind was going to be focused all day. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about his detective.


	6. Chapter 6 Sherlock

**Chapter Six**

**"Sherlock"**

_Where the bloody hell am I? What is that dreadful noise?! _Sherlock had no idea what was going on, but whoever was making that wretched noise was going to find themselves realigning their various broken body parts after he got through with them...

"SHUT UP!" Sherlock sat up violently, trapped in the confines of a blanket he had no recollection of wrapping himself up in. He promptly found himself on his arse caught between the couch and the coffee table. His mind a mess of incoherent thoughts, his eyes sore from weeping, Sherlock was at a complete loss for what was going on or why his mobile was screaming at him. And indeed it was his mobile, vibrating and screeching loud enough to wake the dead, or atleast one very tired detective. Slamming his hand down on it, he resisted the urge to toss it across the room and slid it open instead. Silencing the wretched noise, he caught himself staring at an open text message.

**Mycroft will be here soon. -JW**

How did John know that? And of course John wouldn't wake him before he left, annoyingly considerate was that man. Sherlock deleted the draft and dropped his phone back down next to the very cold tea service. Nevermind Sherlock wanted to talk to him. Or even just be in the same room as him, maybe awake this time and not crying like an infant. It took less than a second, but Sherlock realised that the only way for John to know that Mycroft was coming was if he had already been there, seen the unexplainable, and then left. _I'll just have to pretend that I don't know he was here and hope he does the same..._

Banging his head briefly on the coffee table, Sherlock stood up, not caring that the blanket fell to the not so clean floor. Stepping out of the mess, he dragged his feet on the way down the hall to the bathroom. _How did John leave without me knowing? Was I really that badly off? I must have been, to start bawling like that. Oh bloody hell, I spent the entire morning crying on John Watson. He'll never let me live that down...or he wouldn't if he were coming back. Is he coming back? Snap out of it, Mycroft's coming back..._

Sherlock threw open the door to the bathroom, threw the water on full blast in the shower, jumped in, and only remembered to take off his night clothes when he noticed his robe clogging the drain. Throwing the wet clothing to the floor, Sherlock rested his hands on the shower wall and just let the water rinse away any remaining angst from his emotional storm destroyed morning.

Sherlock didn't know how long he stood there in the shower, but it was long enough for the water to run cold and his equilibrium to return. Grabbing each errant thought and stray emotion, he studied it, put it in its proper place, or tossed it away to be forgotten. When he got to the explosion that had happened in John's arms, he knew he didn't know how to handle what had happened that morning at all. The entire incident had just gutted him. Sherlock pondered the implications as he stepped out of the shower and sporadically dried himself off. Having no experience whatsoever with handling crying people (in a nice way, not the trick you into revealing your nefarious plan to fake your husband's death way), he didn't even know where to start when he was the one crying!

Trying to figure out someone else's emotions was hard enough, and he rarely spared an effort unless it was someone he cared about. He recognized the irony; he didn't care about people unless it was people he cared about, and even then he denied caring at all if called out on it. John and Molly were the exceptions. John was so deeply buried into the depths of his being that Sherlock knew he couldn't focus if his doctor was unhappy. Molly had surprised Sherlock to his core. She had so blithely tossed out that she didn't count, it had shocked him. How could she believe that? She was smart, kind, and she never shied away from helping him. Sure he didn't deny using her attraction to him to get what he wanted sometimes. He was cold-hearted enough to realise that she wanted him, but he couldn't be what she needed. So he kept being himself, cold and distant but never straying towards cruel. The one time he had overstepped, Sherlock had about smacked himself. The look on her face and the defeated sound to her voice as she called him on it had finally caught his attention, and his regret. The apology he had given her was honest, and as heartfelt as he was capable of being. Sherlock still felt the sting when thinking back to that moment, and he had tried to tell Molly how much she mattered to him the night before he Fell. She had done the miraculous, pulling together the pieces of his plan that had allowed him to walk away from his confrontation with Moriarty. Without Molly, it's entirely possible that he wouldn't have made it, and that John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would be dead. So Molly mattered, she mattered very much. He just needed some way to tell her that.

His future relationship with John may be fraught yet with the unknown, but Sherlock had an idea of how to thank the very important Miss Hooper. But first to deal with Mycroft and his impatience.


	7. Chapter 7 The Fire Inside

**Chapter Seven**

**"The Fire inside"**

The fire was still raging behind them, too close to John's boots for Sherlock's comfort. Grabbing the doctor under his arms, Sherlock half lifted, half pulled John farther from the flames. The crowd parted around them, people crying out in concern and trying to see what was going on. He ignored them all, his only concern being the man lying on the damp ground. Terror and anger burst inside his heart, burning like the fire in the square. John seemed to be drugged, blinking slowly, incoherent words coming out of his mouth. Mary huddled on the other side of John, urgently calling his name. Blood was running from several cuts from around his hairline, the most severe the one by his right ear. Mary had a handkerchief out, and she was holding pressure on the wounds.

"Sherlock, I want to call emergency, is it safe? Are they still here?" Mary asked, never taking her eyes off John's face. He knew instantly who she was referring too- the people responsible for taking John. Sherlock looked up, searching the crowd. He was impressed; most women would be screaming, crying and generally getting in the way. Not thinking about potential threats sneaking up on them while their focus was on John.

"I don't see anyone acting unusual- if they were still here there's too many people around for them to risk anything. Don't call emergency- I'm getting Lestrade. He'll send what we need." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and hit Lestrade's speed dial. Sherlock had no doubt that several people in the crowd had already called emergency, he wanted Lestrade and his team, not the entire idiotic force showing up, getting in the way.

Lestrade answered amazingly fast for him- _seems he really was happy to see me, used to be it would have to ring out for almost a minute before he answered-_ Sherlock didn't give him a chance to even say hello.

"Lestrade, we need you now. John's been kidnapped, and almost burned to death at the fireworks party at St James the Lesser. Yes, the church. Hurry, send an ambulance and some slightly intelligent people. And call off the calvary- several people have already phoned, we don't need the whole world here messing things up." Sherlock ended the call. His eyes kept sweeping the people crowded around them, and he hated being closed in. "Mary, get them back- I've got John." Sherlock knew if he tried moving the strangers away he'd be unable to restrain his fury, so mad was he. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his anger was like a wild thing, crashing inside his head and making his teeth clench.

Sherlock was struck by how well Mary handled herself; without hesitation she pressed the handkerchief into Sherlock's hand, stood up, and in her light, charming voice began to ask people to give them room. She kept herself facing the opposite direction Sherlock was-between them they could see both sides of the square. Sherlock processed everything, filing it away for later. Sherlock didn't care at the moment about her resiliency; John had the majority of his focus. Part of him felt the lessening of the crowd at his back- sirens were approaching in the distance and a slight rain had begun to fall. Sherlock worked his arm under John, lifted him up and pulled him back against his chest, holding him tightly. He put the cloth back to the cuts, and put his head next to John's. John was coming around, his eyes were beginning to get some intelligence back in them. He was cold, his temperature lowered by the drugs and laying on the cold, damp ground. He shivered and Sherlock drew him closer.

"John, can you hear me? You're alright now, we got you out. I'm here, we're both here," he said quietly into John's ear, trying as hard as he could to sound calm and in control. The rain began to fall harder, but the trees in the square blocked most of the wet, cold breeze. Sherlock was lucky he'd still been wearing his jacket and scarf when Mary had come crashing into 221B. He wouldn't have waited to put anything back on, so quickly did he and Mary run out of the building. His gloves had borne the brunt of the fire's fury, he knew the leather was scorched through in some places, but he didn't care. He could still use his fingers.

"Sherlock?... what happened...went back to your place...where am I?" John struggled to look around, and Sherlock hitched him up alittle higher. His head rested back on Sherlock's shoulder, and he was able to see clearly enough around him. He lifted his right arm, hesitantly at first, and then very carefully, wrapped his fingers tightly to Sherlock's wrist, of the arm holding him so firmly. He squeezed, and didn't let go. Sherlock hugged him tighter in response.

Mary was back, kneeling in front them, her hands on John's face. She had a torch from somewhere, and was checking John's eyes, the cuts on his face. "It doesn't look too bad darling, seems the worst of it may be whatever they drugged you with. I don't see any burn marks that are too bad, thankfully your clothes seemed to have shielded you from the flames. The paramedics are coming over dear, let them have a look at you."

Three men in emergency uniforms were racing over, and Sherlock saw Lestrade not too far behind. Several police cars were there already, officers pouring out and mingling with the crowd around them. Everyone was talking and shouting- Sherlock ignored it all and made eye contact with Lestrade across the distance. Lestrade began roping his people into order, making them pull the spectators away and starting interviews. "Let no one leave until we get statements, they're all witnesses!"

"Sherlock, let them at John now dear. It's ok, they'll take care of him. Sherlock-" Mary was speaking to him he realized, not unkindly. She seemed to know that he didn't want to let go of John, and she didn't mind one bit. Sherlock nodded tensely. The paramedics held back, seeming to understand that Sherlock was not quite himself-his face probably gave evidence of his current state. He briefly tightened his grip, and John squeezed his wrist one last time. "Alright, he's all yours-" and Sherlock let the paramedics take over, his knees protesting at finally being able to move. Sherlock stood and went to Lestrade, positioning himself to keep John in view at all times. The medics swarmed over him, asking him ridiculous questions and poking at him. John had managed to stay sitting up after Sherlock let him go, and he was responding easier.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock? John was kidnapped? What was that about a fire?" Lestrade asked, his hands on his hips and eyes darting around the square. He was pale, and Sherlock noticed he was out of breath. _I do believe the detective broke all speed laws getting here! Good for him!_

"I got home moments before Mary came over- she had received a text from an anonymous source that revealed in skip code that John had been taken. He was in immediate danger- I got us here within ten minutes, and figured out at about the same time it was lit that the kidnappers had stuffed him into the bonfire. I pulled him out, and called you. Whether they were still here or not after they put him in there is debatable- personally, I would have left as soon as possible." Sherlock said, his eyes still cataloging the scene around him. Some of the spectators were gone- the number of people remaining didn't match up with the amount that had been present when he had charged into the square. He suspected that the kidnappers were indeed gone- the police were wasting their time. But he held his tongue and looked to Lestrade.

"What in the world is a skip code? Bloody hell man, you're back a week and already the world goes insane! And how did you get here so fast? That's a twenty minute drive! Did you bribe the cabbie?"

Lestrade seemed at a loss, dumbfounded by the fact that the entire evening wasn't some cosmic joke. Sherlock just smirked, a tiny smile on his lips. "I have my ways, Detective Inspector."

* * *

John could smell nothing but smoke, his throat burning. His eyes stung, and for some reason his face was bleeding. He kept wanting to shake his head to clear it from the fog it was in, but the annoying man pointing the light in his face kept telling him to hold still. Mary was kneeling by his side, and he had no idea where he was or why she was there. All he knew for certain was that Sherlock had saved him. He had been surrounded by fire, unable to call for help or even breathe- and Sherlock had torn through that wall of fire like an avenging angel and pulled him free. His arms had held him, given him an anchor to fight free of the drugs he'd been pumped full of. Then the medics had arrived, and shooed Sherlock off. John looked past the people kneeling around him, and his gaze found the one he wanted standing not to far away.

Sherlock stood with Lestrade, out of hearing but close enough for John to know they were talking about him. Sherlock would look away to scan the square, but his eyes would come back to rest on John as the paramedics and Mary fussed over him. Sherlock noticed John staring at him, and in a moment so quick that no one else seemed to catch it but him, looked him straight in the eyes and winked. John coughed, his cheeks warming slightly. He felt a frisson of heat travel up his spine, and his mind seemed to clear even more. He would've sworn Sherlock grinned before he turned his attention back to Lestrade. John coughed some more, his whole body shaking. His lungs were clearing, and he could feel his hands and toes again.

"Mary? What happened? How did you get here?" John turned to Mary, struggling to figure out why he had almost been burned alive.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Mary asked, as the paramedics took his vitals. John was starting to get annoyed- he knew he was fine. At the rate he was recovering his wits, he was fairly certain he knew what he had been dosed with, and there wouldn't be any side effects other than some nausea and a slight headache.

"I was outside Sherlock's flat on the street when this arse bumped into me- then I felt a sharp pain in my neck, and hands holding me down. After that, nothing. I came to inside that woodpile- I could hardly move, and I couldn't scream for help. Next thing I know, there's fire all around me. I thought I was going to die- until Sherlock-" John stopped, short of breath. Lestrade had wandered over as John was explaining. Sherlock stayed where he was, still looking at John. John would occasionally catch his eye, but the cockiness Sherlock had displayed earlier seemed to be gone. Now he just looked ...inhuman. His collar was popped up, coat buttoned tight. His face resembled cut marble, all smooth planes and hard edges. John swallowed nervously. He knew that look- someone was going to die.

"You ok then John? Going to the hospital?" Lestrade asked. One of the medics opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off.

"I'm fine. Seriously, I'll be ok. Nothing broken, just some scrapes and some superficial burns. Help me up, I need to get off this wet dirt, it's driving me insane." John started to stand, and about a dozen hands seemed to reach out to help him up. Mary grabbed his elbow, and John stood warily, waiting to see if he found himself back on the ground. He turned to Mary, and smiled at her. She was an amazing woman- she didn't look fazed at all by having her boyfriend nearly burned alive at a bonfire party. John thanked the medics, declining their suggestions he go get checked out at the hospital. Lestrade came over to his other side, and John tried walking. He wavered at first but he kept to his feet. Proud he was handling himself so well, John smiled and looked for Sherlock. All John saw was a sweep of dark coat backlit against the flames, and Sherlock was gone.

* * *

Sherlock rode the bike back towards Baker Street, the helmets strapped behind him to the seat. Prudence had made him wear the helmet on the way to the church, but he was past the point of caring now. John was safe, so Sherlock was free to release the rage that had been building inside. It was an inferno, eroding his control.

Someone had dared to harm John Watson- and then taunt him with it. He knew of few people who had the audacity to do such a thing. The attack had been less about John and more about him. It was clear in that John had been grabbed outside Sherlock's flat, and in the messages to Mary. They had never been for her, but for him. Anyone with half a brain would know that the best person to save John Watson was Sherlock Holmes.

If he had been at home it's possible he could have stopped the kidnapping, maybe even caught John's assailants. But he had been out all day with Molly and Lestrade, after Mycroft had left that morning. Frustration burned along with the rage, and he had no doubt that if anyone was to get a good look at him now they would run screaming.

He had enjoyed Molly's company outside the lab, much to his surprise. She was stronger, less frail than she had been two years ago. The years away from him had done her wonders, as evidenced by the ring on her finger and the smile on her face. He hoped the engagement would finally expunge the unrequited love she held for him; he knew how poisonous such feelings for another could be. He probably shouldn't have kissed her though. He couldn't help himself- he owed much to Molly Hooper, more than a day out with him solving cases would ever be able to cover.

Sherlock shifted gears, increasing speed and dodging past several vehicles. The bike's power and suspension aptly suited his reflexes, and he pushed himself and the bike to their limits. He felt the cold wet air of the late London night on his face and neck, biting him like shards of glass. He was soaking wet, and chilled through to the bone. He felt alive- the anger, adrenaline, and fear mixed a heady cocktail he found intoxicating. Sherlock sympathized with John- it was indeed a heady mix. Addicting. So much so he contemplated keeping the bike instead of returning it. He'd left the owner and his girlfriend cooling their heels at Speedy's, a handful of pound notes tossed their way to keep the fuss to a minimum. Their cooperation wasn't surprising though, for Sherlock was fairly certain he'd put the fear of God into them when he commandeered their ride.

It had been several years since he had the chance to ride, and he was enjoying himself immensely. So much so he jumped the curb in front of Speedy's and slid the bike in for a insanely fast halt directly in front of the cafe's door. Deftly dropping the kickstand and hopping off in one smooth motion, Sherlock stepped through the door. Locating the owner, he tossed the keys to the kid and smiled sharply. The ride back had cleared his head enough for him to be slightly cordial.

"You ever want to sell it, I live just upstairs. 221B," with another dramatic swirl of his coat, Sherlock left the cafe. No doubt Twitter would light up tonight with** #sherlockstolemybike**, or something else equally ridiculous.


	8. Chapter 8 His Heart's in the Music

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I love it like I do. Thank you for reading, and all the follows and reviews. More chapters are already written, and will be forthcoming shortly. Please enjoy!**

**Chapter Eight**

**"His Heart's in the Music"**

No one was more pleased than John Watson in the two days after the Underground Bombing attempt and the arrest of Lord Moran. Or he would have been pleased if the response to his blog hadn't crashed his page, and then lead to a dozen or so reporters showing up at his place before the sun was even up. The story had only been up for a couple of hours and London was going insane. Social media erupted, and the **#thegameisbackon **almost wrecked Twitter too.

John let the curtains drop, ignoring the bulb flashes, and picked up his mobile. If he wasn't going to be getting any sleep, then he knew one detective who wasn't going to be getting any sleep either.

* * *

Sherlock hung up the phone, and lay in bed, thoroughly disgruntled and having a bad morning-_no, bad PRE-DAWN morning!_- .

John had, in predictable fashion, posted their first case back together on his blog. And the response from social media had been as explosive as the case- every pun intended. John had called to warn him that the media was going crazy, and were swarming his place, and the neighbors were having a fit.

"Sorry mate, Mary and I are escaping to your place, be there soon." John had said before clicking the call over. Sherlock had been so out of it he hadn't even been able to listen correctly. He usually slept like the dead after a case was completed, and he figured he'd been out like a light since sometime early afternoon yesterday. Groaning and mumbling under his breath about incorrigible doctors and their penchant for blogging overly dramatic versions of events, Sherlock slowly dragged his tired and sore body out of bed. Barely managing to remain on his feet, he loudly stumbled down the hall to the front room. Attempting to make his eyes work, he went to the window, and squinted down to the street below.

"JOHN! Bloody hell!" Sherlock cursed, hardly caring there was no one around to hear. He rolled his eyes at the herd of milling reporters practically camped on his front stoop. Sherlock stomped all the way over to the flat's door, yelling "Mrs. Hudson, time to wake up! We're under siege, company incoming!"

Knowing he'd shouted loud enough to wake the dead, Sherlock made his way back down the hall and stormed into his bathroom. John had his key- Sherlock wasn't waiting on them to show up.

* * *

Sherlock was hiding, unashamedly so. In fact, he figured he was being fairly blatant about it. Too many cheery souls in his flat, drinking champagne and being talkative. Their laughter echoed off the halls down to his room, and he reached out and closed the door to his room halfway. Tossing aside the deerstalker cap he'd donned for the press, Sherlock threw off his jackets and reached for his robe. It was the new tan one Mrs Hudson had gotten him, the one he thought made him look washed out but she said made him look distinguished.

He and John had stood outside Baker Street just minutes before, shoulder to shoulder. Knowing the press wouldn't leave unless they got something from them, Sherlock let John sway him into making a statement and taking some questions. John had been quite eager, and Sherlock caved easily after seeing how badly John wanted him to do it.

The reporters had been predictably stupid, as well as their questions. So very boring. "How did you know Lord Moran was the one behind the bombing attempt?", to "Is that the same hat?" and "Where have you been the last two years?" were practically asked on repeat. Sherlock had given the barest of answers to the first, a short "yes" to the second, and utterly ignored the third. John handled his questions well, a big smile never leaving his face. He even took the time to reply to the most banal of questions, while Sherlock just stood there and smirked.

It wasn't until the last question that Sherlock was caught unprepared. He really shouldn't have been, as someone was bound to ask. "Did Dr Watson know you were alive- have you been in communication the whole time you were presumed dead?" That was the question that silenced the whole crowd, as lenses flashed and cameras zoomed in on their faces, waiting on the answer. Sherlock had turned to John, one eyebrow raised in query - this one was for John, if he wanted it. John had looked slightly pained, then a polite mask wiped his features clean.

"Sherlock did what was necessary to stop a madman. England is safer with Moriarty and his organization gone." His calm non-answer drew groans from the reporters. "Thank you all for you time, and I will have a chance later to answer more questions on my blog. Thank you."

Sherlock was mildly impressed with John's handling of the media, though he was a little disappointed he didn't have a chance to be too outrageous. No sound bites played _ad infinitum _on Crimewatch tonight then. Plenty of hat shots though. John should enjoy that.

Sherlock picked the hat back up from the bed, smoothing out the bow on top. Every time he wore the damned thing people went crazy. Some even screamed. He had no idea why. John loved it though, chuckling every time he saw a picture of Sherlock wearing it. For that alone he kept it.

The noise level in the front room of his flat rose, and Sherlock knew he should be out there with them. The company had been tolerable until the knock-off fiancé had shown up, then it just got weirder. All the people he knew he could call his "friends" were out there, enjoying each other's company. They were not just celebrating the closing of the case, but Mary and John's engagement as well. Sherlock had noticed the ring instantly, as Mary made breakfast from the groceries they'd grabbed on the way over. Sherlock had snagged a cup of tea, and seen the unopened bottles of champagne in the bags left on the table. Obvious, really. He'd shook John's hand, and kissed Mary on the cheek in congratulations. He was certain neither had noticed the flinch he tried his damnedest to hide. Mrs Hudson had joined the party, going on and on about dresses and the perfect place to have the reception. John must have spread the word, because Lestrade had shown up after breakfast, and Molly and her fiancé just before the interview.

"Hey, you okay? You've been standing there for awhile just staring at that hat." John asked, having managed to sneak down the hall and into his room without Sherlock noticing. He stood just past the door, letting it fall back to its original position. John looked happy, content. At least Sherlock assumed he was, asking him to deduce someone's emotional state was always a hit and miss. But he figured John was, what with all the smiling and laughing. And that smile he had on his face at the moment made something lift in Sherlock's chest at the sight.

"Marvelous, John. Just wondering how long it would take to dissolve this ear hat in stomach bile," he replied.

"Right- just not when I'm around, okay?" John laughed, stepping closer to Sherlock. "The girls were talking about going out for lunch. Something or other about dresses. I bowed out, and Tom's off too. Lestrade has plans. It's just us, if you're up for the company."

"Tom?" He couldn't think, John was shutting down his brain being so close. _Act natural, he won't notice if you act natural..._

"Molly's boyfriend? Your doppelgänger? I'm taking that as a yes by the way. Let me just send the others off. Be right back." With that he turned and quickly slipped out of the bedroom. Suddenly there seemed to be more air in the room. Sherlock could hear him ushering people out, with Lestrade and Molly yelling their goodbyes to him down the hallway. Those two knew him well enough to figure why he was hiding out, and weren't at all upset by it. He waited until there was nothing but silence, and then sighed in relief. Throwing the ear hat over his shoulder, he cautiously walked down the hall towards the front room.

John was digging through the drawers in the kitchen, looking for take out menus. Sherlock paused, eyeing the doctor curiously while his back was turned. The entire morning (aside from the very serious moment on the stairs), John had been all smiles. At first Sherlock had thought it was because of Mary and the ring thing, but John's smile had changed from "thanks for your congratulations" to a smile far more _intense,_ and only at Sherlock. Every time Sherlock had been looking at John (which was a lot, he hadn't seen the man for almost two years, he can be forgiven for staring at his doctor), and John caught him, John's smile would alter slightly, and the look in his eyes made Sherlock shiver. John had always been able to get a reaction from Sherlock, whether he knew it or not. Always. Sherlock was just very good at hiding it, even from himself. So his morning was spent watching John smile that _smile_ at him. When he wasn't dodging happy people who made him want to find another roof to jump from, that is. John hadn't stop smiling all morning, and it was making Sherlock jumpy.

_I can hardly understand my own emotions most of the time, how can I interpret someone else's reliably? _Sherlock lamented internally, watching the way John's shoulders moved under his cardigan. Shaking himself out of his reverie, Sherlock turned and walked into the front room.

Trying to decipher John Watson's moods and emotional motives were both incredibly easy, and yet incredibly hard, all at the same time. Years on in their relationship, and Sherlock still couldn't fathom the depths of the doctor's heart. For instance, John's insistence he go out on date during a case, and then getting upset with Sherlock because he went too! John went on a date during a case, what did he expect? Sherlock was still stumped by that one. Though the good doctor's dating days were over, if the ring on Mary's finger was anything to go by. Sherlock knew he'd interrupted the first time John tried to propose with his poorly chosen "TADA!" moment as the waiter. Oops. Sherlock felt torn; he wanted John to be happy, and if Mary made John happy, then Sherlock was happy for them. Or so he kept telling himself. He found Mary to be the least objectionable of all the women John had dated over the years. She handled herself well in a crisis, and didn't make John choose between Sherlock/cases and herself. At least not yet. And the biggest deciding factor in her favor was that she accepted Sherlock, wholeheartedly. There had been no hesitation on her part, no fear or judgment. Almost as if she accustomed to people like himself, or even that she'd seen worse.

_If John is to be taken from me, let it be by someone like her. I can stand it if he loves her, loves her enough not to come back to me. I lost him two years ago, and she saved him. I left him broken, and Mary helped him heal. And he loves her for it. _Sherlock walked over to his chair, and snagged his violin up from the chair. Looking for the bow, he spotted it hiding under a newspaper with the headline "Hat Detective Returns". _UGH, what a dreadfully idiotic headline!_ At least he couldn't see the hat picture with the fold in the way.

"Food's all set, it should be here soon," John said, coming in from the kitchen and clicking off his mobile. He dropped himself into his chair, and looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Going to play, then?"

Sherlock nodded absently, his fingers automatically tuning the strings. He spared a quick glance at John, who was smiling at him again. He felt a small twitch of his own lips in return, and he flipped the bow end over twice before catching it in a casual, smooth motion.

"Well, don't tell anybody this or I'll kill you for real, but I've missed listening to you. Whenever I'd hear something on the radio or TV that sounded like something you'd play I'd always change the channel. Glad that's over now," he said casually, like he'd just stated he liked tea.

Sherlock's heart jumped, then settled into a slightly faster pace. He turned fully to John, settled on the arm of his chair, and thought for a moment. There was one song he knew from his childhood, one of the first he'd learned to play by heart. He brought the violin to his chin, the bow to the strings. Sherlock collected his thoughts, opened the door in his mind palace to the room that held his music, and began to play. The world fell away, and Sherlock let the music embrace him, along with the company he kept.

* * *

John knew the song well, an old Irish ballad about a young soldier going off to war. It was a song about love, pain, and the promise of death in the end. About life going on afterwards, no matter how badly broken one's heart may be. John was absurdly touched by Sherlock's choice, and he pondered the man as he played. His eyes had almost completely closed, a glitter of gem stone brilliance peeking through his lashes. John was content to be still, and listen.

_Does he know how much of himself he reveals while he plays? The world may see him one way, but if it was to see him play, I know a lot of opinions would change. His emotions, his fears, his thoughts are bared before his audience, with every note. If Sherlock ever needs help explaining his emotions, I know to give him his violin!_

Years ago, before the Fall, while they stilled lived together, Sherlock would play for hours. Many times he'd forgo speaking entirely for the violin instead. He would claim it was to help him think, to process cases. John knew it was more than that. It may help the detective solve a case, but it worked because it gave him an emotional outlet. Everything he repressed was released into the music. As his emotions calmed, Sherlock was able to think for more clearly. And with clarity, came insight.

Sherlock had reached the chorus, his body moving slightly with the melody of the song. His form was perfect, and he moved with an unconscious grace. His eyes were fully shut, face relaxed and peaceful. The sun had shifted in the sky, and a slight halo lit Sherlock from behind. John held his breath, afraid to move, to spoil the image. To see Sherlock like this was a rarity; it never happened often that he was content to play for the joy of the music, at peace with his place in the world.

John was flooded with gratitude, thankful that he could have this moment. Sherlock was truly home, and they were together again at last. As Sherlock played, John felt like the music was washing over him, into him. It went to all the broken places left in his heart; no matter that he had forgiven Sherlock and welcomed him back into his life, his heart was still damaged in so many places. John was helpless to the music as it played with his heartstrings. Sherlock was healing his hurts with each note, each elegant pull of the bow across the strings. When he forgave Sherlock on the train he had felt a weight lift from him, like the lessening of a burden he didn't know he was carrying. Now he was awash with emotion, as the music lifted him from the pain of the last two years. It conjured in him that awesome emotion he still couldn't name, the one he'd felt while Sherlock cried into his chest the other morning. This unnameable, powerful force of nature overwhelmed him, and John was lost to the music, and the man creating the miracle he was experiencing.


	9. Chapter 9 Takeaway, and The Truth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I really do love him! Please enjoy, I cried while writing this, hopefully I can get some tears out of everyone else!**

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**Chapter Nine**

**"Takeaway, and The Truth"**

Sherlock let the last note drift away, holding the bow posed over the strings as the violin quieted. Peace and contentment had stolen over him as he played, and he had kept playing until his fingers bid him rest. There hadn't been many opportunities to play while on the Continent, and the violin would have given potential observers clues as to his identity. Sherlock slowly lowered his instrument and opened his eyes, not surprised he had fully settled into the seat of his chair while playing. He often ended up in different places around the flat when he played; he could have just as easily ended up in the bathroom as his chair. Not that he would've minded, the bathroom had excellent acoustics.

John was gone from his chair; Sherlock tilted his head as he caught the murmur of voices from downstairs. The inner front door closed and he heard John's distinctive tread coming back up the stairs. He smelled Chinese food before John even breached the doorway, and Sherlock's stomach complained bitterly over its lack of food during the last few days.

"Don't think I didn't hear that! I know how you get on case, and as your doctor, I'm prescribing this entire carton of beef and scallops in oyster sauce." John dropped the takeaway carton in his lap, forcing Sherlock to hurriedly put aside his violin lest his dinner ended up on the floor.

The smell was overpowering, and John laughed as Sherlock damn near ripped the carton apart to attack the food. John completely lost it when Sherlock tossed the chopsticks to the floor and just started using his fingers. Sherlock just growled at him and kept eating. John bent over and picked up the discarded sticks, tossing them into the hearth. John settled for using his fork and ate his sweet and sour chicken at a more sedate pace.

John had barely finished his lunch before Sherlock went hunting for fortune cookies in the bottom of the take out bag.

"Going to guess at them again?" John asked.

"John, I never guess. You should know this by now," came the haughty reply.

"Yes you do, there's no way you can know what the cookies are going to say."

A flash of bright eyes and a smirk was his reply, and Sherlock came back up from the bag with a handful of cookies.

"Care to wager?" Sherlock asked, reaching over and dropping the fortune cookies into John's hands.

"Yeah, I do. But let's make this a serious wager."

"Oh?"

"If you can't get the majority right, I win. I win, I get to ask you a question that you have to answer with complete and thorough honesty. If you do get the majority right, then you get to ask me a question, same conditions." John said, issuing his challenge. He grinned at Sherlock, daring him to take him up on it.

Sherlock raised a brow, wondering what John was getting at. But considering he knew he would win, Sherlock smiled and waved his hand at John to begin opening the cookies.

Sherlock's smile grew into a grin as he told John the fortune for every cookie he opened. John's face was disbelieving, and after the fourth cookie and the correct fortune, he threw up his hands in disgust.

"One of these days you're going to tell me how you do that!" John complained, leaning over to spill half of the broken cookie pieces into Sherlock's palm. Their fingers brushed, and Sherlock felt the touch all the way down to his toes. It was if he'd run around his flat in wool socks and touched something metal. (Which of course he's done several times.)

"Never going to happen, my dear doctor. I am assuming correctly that I can hold my question in reserve, to be asked at my leisure?"

"Yeah, whenever. Still think you're cheating." John may complain about Sherlock and his pouts, but he had nothing on John Watson right now! Sherlock laughed, his deep baritone filling the flat. He began to munch thoughtfully on the pieces, and looked at John. _Why not? I have nothing to hide from John anymore. I have already lost everything to my Fall, let him ask me how I walked away from that rooftop._

"Go ahead John, ask your question. Same conditions. I'll ask mine some other time." Sherlock said quietly, catching the doctor's eyes as he looked up in surprise. John held his gaze for a second, before dropping his eyes to the floor.

_Are you going to ask me about how I survived? Why would that make you nervous? Why am I getting nervous because you hesitate to ask me?_

John cleared his throat, and brought his eyes back to meet the detective's. "Was it hard for you to leave? To do what you did to everyone; what you did to me?"

Sherlock was stunned- he hadn't expected that at all. He was expecting John to ask him how he pulled off surviving the Fall, or maybe even what he'd been doing for the last two years. Or possibly even ask him about his meltdown earlier in the week. Thinking back to that morning where he'd cried in John's arms, Sherlock had a place to start. He kept John's gaze, leaned back in his chair, sighed.

* * *

"You have asked me for complete and thorough honesty. I shall try my best to give it to you."

"I knew it was coming. The events that lead to my Fall. The destruction of my reputation, all of it. I knew it was coming, and yet it still took every ounce of skill I possessed to survive it. Mycroft had given Moriarty enough of a false lead on me that we barely stayed ahead of him the whole time. Once we were on that roof, it was a battle to the death. One of us would win. What I hadn't anticipated was Moriarty's determination to win at all costs. He wanted to win, only win. I wanted to win and LIVE. That was the difference between us in the end. I wanted to live and he wanted to win. I would usually favor such ruthlessness to be the victor in such a confrontation, but my desire to survive gave me adaptability, options that he didn't think of. His endgame was my death - by suicide- and he used you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as leverage to ensure I died. He took himself out to prevent me from forcing him to call off the assassins. I could have broken him, and he knew it. Much of this you may already know, John, either from guesswork and from your own observations over the last couple of years." Sherlock paused, as John nodded slowly. Sherlock took a deep breath, and knew he was about to voice the hard part- his feelings.

"But more than anything, John- I wanted you to live. More than my own survival, I desired for you to live." Sherlock paused, and John's eyes widened slightly. Sherlock's heart began to beat harder, his palms to sweat. _Stay calm, and tell him all of it!_

"You said that day by my graveside that I had saved you. That you were alone, and that I pulled you back into life. What I couldn't say to you then, John, was that it was **you who saved me.** I have spent my whole life living inside my head, treating my body and my humanity as disadvantages to be overcome. My experiments, my cases, my deductions, even the drugs, were for the fostering of my mind and my skills, to the exclusion of my heart, my spirit."

"Only after a long time of prolonged exposure did other people even begin to register to me on something close to an emotional level. For me to care or concern myself with the wants and needs of others was an impossibility. I knew enough of society's strictures to remain functional, and to prevent people from interfering with me too often, or from hindering my pursuits."

John nodded, and said gently, "High functioning sociopath, I get it." He smiled a little, and his expression clearly encouraged Sherlock to keep going.

"Precisely John. I had diagnosed myself years before we met, and as I result I stopped trying to adapt to how other people expected, wanted me to be. I allowed myself freedom, but at a horrible cost. A cost I never realized I was paying, until I met you." Sherlock swallowed, thankful his voice was remaining even, calm. _Don't falter now, you survived Moriarty and the Fall, you can survive telling John the truth._

"From the moment we met at the lab at St Bart's, I knew you were different. I just thought it was because you accepted me as I was. You accepted me without judgment. You believed in me almost instantly, gave me your trust and your friendship without hesitation. You gave me something I had never had before, a friend. Over the months that followed, it was through you that began to remember, to realize, that I had been born with a heart, and that I had once used it. I would watch you, and learn from you. How I was supposed to feel to any given situation, and so very slowly, I learned to recognize my own emotions. I was able to feel them, name them, and I began to learn how to use them all through you. By being with you."

"The disgust and distrust I held towards sentiment was still strong, so it was an ever present battle between my head and my heart. But this is where you came in and saved me again, John." Sherlock's voice had gone soft, deeper, and he spoke as if in a trance, his eyes focused inwards.

John was amazed. He didn't know how they had gotten to this place, but he was determined not to stop the younger man. He barely recognized this person before him. If not for the cool, methodical voice, John wouldn't have known it was still Sherlock.

"How did I save you, Sherlock?" John asked, needing to know. His own heart felt like it was going to leap out of his chest, so badly did he need Sherlock to continue.

"Caught between cold reason, ruthless logic and the emotions so powerful and new to me, I feared the chaos would destroy me. Make me less than who I was, who I am still. Until I realized that you **made me stronger. **You would inspire my leaps of genius, and so too did you give me strength. You became my anchor, my calm center in the storm. I needed only you to keep me whole, focused. Better in every way."

Sherlock didn't notice the tears in John's eyes, or the hand he pressed to his own mouth to stop himself from ruining the moment. John cried silently, refusing to take his eyes from his detective.

"Is it selfishness, my desire to keep you alive? Is that what it came down to on that roof, in the end? I need you, so you must live? Admittedly, I had to fake my death for so many reasons, all of them justifiable. But was my true motivation to jump really to save you, so that you could keep saving me? Isn't that the purest form of selfishness there can be? After all you had done in teaching me to utilize my heart, my emotions, was buried under it a core as dark as Moriarty's? You must live so I can too? Am I a monster John, one determined to use you for my own selfish desires? That is a thought that haunts me, that haunts me even now. I fear it, that question." Sherlock felt like he was about to shatter, but he held onto the truth he had yet to reveal. _I will not fail to tell him!_

John tried to protest, but Sherlock lifted his hand, stilling John's voice. His eyes were aware again, and narrowed in on John's face. There was an intensity in those brilliant eyes John had never seen before, and he felt pinned to the chair and this moment in time.

"While I may never know the truth to that questions anytime soon, there is one thing I now for certain. With perfect clarity. You are in every part of me, every corner of my reality, my mind, my heart. My very cells are built around you. I want you to be happy. I want to see you smile, hear you laugh, know you are content and pleased with your life. I regretted causing you such hurt and pain, so much so it drove me to distraction. So many times during the last two years I wanted to reach out, and take away your sadness. I have the potential to be a monster, a mad dog of an anarchist like Moriarty. But there is one thing in this world keeping me from fulfilling that potential- and it's you, John Watson."

"So yes, it was hard for me to do what I did. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life."


	10. Chapter 10 Two Paths

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but Sherlock owns my heart! This chapter was a joy to write, I hope everyone enjoys reading it too! Things are about to get interesting! And if you have been following and reviewing, thank you. I really appreciate it all.**

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**Chapter Ten**

**"Two Paths"**

_" You are in every part of me, every corner of my reality, my mind, my heart. My very cells are built around you."_

Those words circled inside his mind, echoing. John was lost, so completely without anchor he had nothing but gravity holding him together. The words resonated inside of him, striking a response from every cell of his being. He had no control, and so he sat in his armchair next to the unlit hearth on a sunny autumn day, listening to his best friend confess _everything. _Sherlock bloody Holmes, the most amazing human being John Watson had ever met, had just given a confession worthy of a priest. Sherlock Holmes was a man who pulled off miracles like the average man made a cup of tea. John's belief in the infallibility of Sherlock had always been a constant, so to hear this man confess to needing _him_, of all people, left John destroyed. The vulnerability and strength of the man who had just bared his soul to him left John struck dumb.

For the first time in a long time, John felt a few tears escape, rolling down his cheeks, and over the hand he still pressed to his mouth to hold back a sob. He hadn't taken his eyes from Sherlock once during his entire speech, and he found he couldn't look away now. Sherlock's eyes traced the trail the tears made down his face.

_"So yes, it was hard for me to do what I did. Leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life."_

John couldn't breathe, his lungs freezing, muscles tightening across his body. A small part of him was afraid he might be having a heart attack, but his heart raced on in his chest. He felt the room close in around him, spots dancing in his eyes.

"John, please breathe! I don't want to explain to people why you fainted in my flat." Sherlock's tone was amused, but his eyes were wary, as if he were afraid of John's reaction.

John dropped his hand, realizing he'd inadvertently been choking himself. He dragged in a lungful of air, coughing. His vision cleared, and he tried to find words. Any words, really. "Oh God, Sherlock..."

"Not quite, people always get us confused. Understandable, really." Sherlock quipped, his regular arrogance returning like a shield. His eyes glittered suspiciously, but he smirked at John anyway.

That snapped John back from the brink._ I'm not going to let you play this off! It's too late, I heard it all. You just broke my heart and put it back together again!_

"Oh shut it mate. I'm not going to let you play this off, just gimme a minute to recover. I can't wrap my head around it. And no idiot comments." John said, his voice harsh even to his own ears. John stood, his sudden movement making Sherlock flinch, the barest tightening of the skin around his eyes. He walked to the center of the room, his back to the hearth and the young man who sat there. His hands hung at his sides, clenching and releasing in nervous habit.

_Does he realize what he's just done to me? No one has ever... He needs me, Sherlock bloody Holmes NEEDS me! Everything he just said, those are the most important words I've ever heard in my life. He has to know that! I have to tell him, I have to tell him how much he matters to me, but I don't have the words. _It was that thought that made John stiffen up, his spine straightening. He would not fail to let this man know how much he mattered. How much he had always mattered. John turned back to Sherlock, to see him pretending to be totally fine, picking invisible lint from his sleeve.

"Thank you." John hadn't meant for the words to just slip out like that. Sherlock had been all eloquence and sophistication, and John wanted to at least try for something close to that. But he couldn't - he wasn't built for grandiose statements and flowery speeches. He was blunt, to the point, he appreciated simplicity. Sherlock looked up in surprise. John walked back towards the hearth, stopping at the side of Sherlock's chair. John looked down at his detective, and tried again.

"I'm not, you know I'm not good at this. So I'll just say it. Thank you. For telling me. For being honest. For saving all of our lives at the risk of your own. You literally gave up your life to stop a madman, to save us all. To save me." John paused, gathered his words. "You may not have died in body, but you still gave up your life. I understand that kind of sacrifice." John felt a twinge of pain from the scar on his left shoulder in response.

John took another deep breath, and looked Sherlock deep in his eyes, trying to impart just how he was feeling. He would say the next part if it killed him. It just might, if Sherlock reacted badly. He would be brave and say it, he could do nothing less.

"I need you too." John was terrified, but he couldn't make himself stop. "You make me feel alive, whole. You make me feel something I have never felt before. I don't know what it is, but I need you to know I feel it. Having you in my world again gives me purpose. I had routine, I had structure, a career to fill my time and days. But a sense of purpose? A reason to be alive? I get that from you."

John reached out his hand, slowly. He stopped just shy of Sherlock's hand where it rested on the armrest. He held it there, unable to keep reaching. "Having you back, it hurt almost as bad as having lost you. You came back just as suddenly as you left me. My life had a single path ahead of it after you left. One I wanted, and chose, as there was nothing left to choose from with you gone. I can try to deny that I settled for the lesser of two options, but you were gone, my life with you was gone. I had to survive losing you, so I chose a path that gave me back some sense of living again. A shadow of what I had with you in my world, but enough to keep me together."

Sherlock was paler than he usually was, his eyes glittering in the sun that shone through the windows on his face. His hand closed the final distance between them, lifting to grasp John's hand. John felt that emotion he couldn't name rise up in him at Sherlock's touch, his pulse racing. He knew Sherlock could feel it, his fingers rested lightly on his wrist.

"Now I have two choices, and I am terrified. I never expected to have this choice, so I never thought about the consequences of choosing. I don't know what to do, I need you to help me now." Sherlock's grip was stronger now, and his eyes latched onto John's. "What I feel for you is stronger than anything I have ever felt before. It's so strong I can't control it, Sherlock. I felt it like a punch to the gut in the restaurant, I felt it the other morning here in your flat, I felt it when you held me in your arms after pulling me from the fire. I have never felt _this before for anyone, much less a man._ It's a puzzle driving me insane, Sherlock. Help me solve it. Tell me what I'm feeling, please. I need you. I need you."

It was a roaring beast in his ears, that nameless emotion. It gave him no peace, pulled him from his comfort zone and dragged him behind it. He had the sense to keep holding onto Sherlock, as the realization hit him. It was need, basic and primal. He had the experience to know it was attraction, desire, but at a level beyond anything he had ever felt. And it came out only in response to the man before him. It was more than desire, too - it was love. Love beyond what one felt for a friend or colleague. Love so strong it felt like he was being remade, like a river bed beneath flood waters.

It crystallized together in a cohesive whole in an instant in time, every little thing that had never quite added up. Once the pain and betrayal of the first couple of days had faded, this love had grown fast and true. It had made him wake up every morning feeling more alive, put energy back into his body and heart. He felt like himself again, how he felt he was supposed to be. But he had felt restless, like he was missing something the last few mornings. Once he saw Sherlock that morning, and the reaction Sherlock had to Mary's ring, that feeling had grown faster, stronger, alive in him so much so he was helpless beneath it. Sherlock's confession broke down the last wall of defense he had been using; denial. He had been denying what he was feeling, denying its existence because it wasn't what he was supposed to feel. It seems he had always felt it, from the first moment Sherlock had deduced his whole life and asked to use his mobile. But with Sherlock's return, this love took its chance to grow again, and didn't stop. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes, had been forever, and would always be.

John knew he loved Mary. It had been a soft, powerful love that caught him from his grief and pushed him back into the feeling world. He knew Mary had saved him in no small way, teaching him to be a person again. And he had wanted to have a future with her, a family. If Sherlock reciprocated in any way, John knew he couldn't continue with Mary. He would let her go, it was only right. He would hate to hurt her, but what he was feeling now was too much. Even if Sherlock turned him aside, he didn't think he could ever go back to Mary. What he was feeling now, for Sherlock, was akin to being struck by lightning twice in a lifetime. It just never happened. And he didn't want it to go away, leaving him a burnt ruin of a man.

_What path you take now rests in Sherlock's hands. What your future is going to be. He has control now. I just hope he understands what I'm trying to tell him, if he doesn't understand, or if he reacts badly, I'm done. Broken. What if he doesn't understand? Oh God, I suck at this I really do... _He didn't know what to do next or what to say. He was terrified Sherlock would never understand what he wanted, or if he did, would rebuke him. In all their years together, Sherlock had never shown romantic attraction to anyone. The Woman was the closest John had ever seen him get, but that relationship was broken from the start. He had never expressed a desire for anything beyond friendship, and what they currently shared. In his confession he hadn't mentioned love at all, in fact he had chosen almost every way to express how he was feeling but love. And that left John stuck, no option but to leave the choice of what his future would be in Sherlock's hands. _Screw it, I going to try..._

"Sherlock... I need you. Save me again, please." John backed up slowly, gently pulling the unresisting detective to his feet. He faltered, standing next to this man he needed so much, holding tightly to his hand. He felt the current rising in him, that charge building beneath his skin. Its heat grew in his stomach, like he had just downed a fifth of whisky in seconds. He was on the edge, so close. John was shaking, breathing erratic, heart racing, skin flushed. He looked up into Sherlock's face and met his eyes. And waited.


	11. Chapter 11 First Time for Everything

**Chapter Eleven**

**"First Time for Everything"**

John's grip on his hand was strong, for all that he was shaking. _Fingers hot, pulse racing, his eyes dilated, ragged breathing pattern... _Sherlock catalogued the symptoms in front of his eyes, hardly believing his own senses. _JOHN. Am I wrong? I don't want to be wrong... _Sherlock reached for John's other wrist, his long fingers finding the pulse leaping at the joint. _I'm not wrong!_

_ "I need you too... save me again." _John's words reverberated through Sherlock's whole being, lighting a fire in their wake. They were so close Sherlock felt the heat from the other man's body down his entire length. Sherlock felt that urge to touch more of his doctor swell up, overcome him like it had the morning John came to see him. The difference was, he was touching him already, and John wasn't mad at him... John was acting like he wanted nothing more than to be closer too...

Sherlock was trapped, at a loss on how to proceed. He had zero experience, no basis for comparison on what action to take to get what he wanted. He didn't even know what he wanted... all he knew is he wanted to be closer.

"John... tell me what to do." Sherlock whispered, voice deep and full of longing.

"What do you want?" John asked back, whispering too. He shifted slightly, until he was pressing lightly along Sherlock's front, chest to hips. Sherlock felt the immediate change in his body, static electricity charging across every inch of his skin. Felt heat, too. So much heat, especially where their bodies met.

"More... I want more. Show me what to do, John." Theirs faces were closer now, foreheads brushing.

"I can help you, let me show you..." His voice whispering against Sherlock's mouth; tipping his face up, John said, "Like this Sherlock..." John moved carefully, cautiously, and oh so ever gently placed his lips to Sherlock's.

He froze. Heart stopped, muscles seizing tight. All his considerable focus narrowed down to the sensation of his doctor's lips on his own. Strong and surprisingly soft, and so very hot. So hot... his eyes drifted shut, and he was dimly aware he made a tiny sound deep in his throat. John pressed closer, encouraged. John moved his lips, increasing the pressure of his kiss. Sherlock's lips opened of their own accord, and he groaned in pleasant surprise when John's tongue touched his.

John knew instantly that Sherlock was inexperienced, he had no notion how to kiss him back. It made him extra aware that he shouldn't try to push any faster, to be careful. Sherlock let John lead, trusting completely that John would show him what to do. John pressed himself fully against Sherlock, tilted his head to the side, and kissed Sherlock as deeply as he dared, giving the man every shred of skill he could muster. John swept his tongue across Sherlock's, touching and tasting him. Sherlock shivered, and angled his head to let John in deeper. John moaned, loving his detective's response, the sound escaping into Sherlock's mouth.

Curious, Sherlock tried to respond. His tongue darted out, and tangled with John's. This brought a growl from the doctor, and Sherlock found enough courage to do it again. John shook his hands free and whipped them up the grasp Sherlock firmly, fingers buried in his dark curls. Sherlock's hands found their way to John's hips, and he yanked them tightly to his own. Sherlock stopped caring that he had no notion of what he was doing, and let instinct take over. He wanted more, so much more. John tasted wonderful, his mouth the most amazing thing he had ever felt. All his senses were heightened, and he used them to enjoy the man in his arms. Everything felt new, sensations stirred to life by the man kissing him so passionately.

Suddenly breaking apart, both panting hard for air, Sherlock and John just stared at each other in shock. Sherlock's lips were red and bruised looking, his eyes hooded and his face flushed by color. John was astounded at the response he'd been given to his kiss, and what in turn it had done to him. Satisfaction at giving Sherlock his first real tongue tangling kiss made him smile. Sherlock smiled in return, hesitantly at first then splitting into a wide grin. Sherlock laughed, his voice full of something so rarely heard in it it- joy. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest, and buried his face in his neck, laughter bubbling up from him as well. Sherlock hugged him back, their laughter joining together and echoing of the walls of the flat.

...

"Did I do it right then? Did I save you?" Sherlock asked quietly, his chest rumbling under John's ear.

"Yes, I think you did. You saved me very nicely, indeed." John replied, lifting his head to smile that special smile of his at his detective. "I wasn't certain how you would respond, I was quite nervous in fact."

"Hhhmmm." Sherlock caught John's eye, and slowly dipped his head to kiss John quickly on the lips. He pulled back almost instantly, eyes questioning. John was surprised, and happily hugged Sherlock in response. "I want to do that again, John. I am supposed to keep wanting to do that, right?"

"Yes, you are. Please keep doing that." So Sherlock dipped down for another, longer kiss. Sherlock was finding himself enjoying this whole kissing thing far more than he ever thought he would. So much so he got distracted by those firm, soft lips, those strong hands holding him tightly. Sherlock hummed happily as John slowly pulled away, lips clinging for one last kiss before Sherlock let him go.

John pulled away from Sherlock, his right hand gliding across Sherlock's chest as he stepped towards his armchair. Sherlock went to follow, hesitant, unsure of what to do next.

John sat heavily in his chair, and sighed deeply. His face lost the happy glow it had been wearing. Sherlock was alarmed, and went to stand next to John's chair. "John? What did I do?" _Oh God, I did something wrong..._

"No, no. It's nothing you did, not directly." John's voice seemed sadder, and he had a look that clearly said whatever he was thinking about wasn't pleasant.

"Oh, okay. Not directly? Can you explain?" Sherlock was getting nervous, his stomach clenching in what he thought might be fear.

John looked at him, and grimaced. One word was all he needed to explain, really. One name. "Mary."

"Mary? What does Mary have to do with me?...oh!" Sherlock felt like an idiot, which didn't happen often, unless he missed a clue so obvious it had been staring him in the face the whole time. "You're engaged to Mary, and you were just kissing me."

John smiled, and laughed a little at that. "Yeah, spot on. I need to know what to do about Mary. Or, more accurately, I know what I must do."

"What must you do?" John looked up at Sherlock when he asked that, and reached out for his detective's hand. The ease at which John reached for him reassured Sherlock, and he gripped John's hand firmly.

"Even if you hadn't let me kiss you, if you hadn't kissed me back, I would still have to do this. Break things off with Mary. It's not right. I won't be that person. I can't be with her, feeling about you the way I do. How I've always felt about you."

Sherlock felt that tingle of current along the surface of his skin again, and he stroked a finger along the inside of John's wrist. "How do you feel about me?"

"Sherlock, you great idiot. Can't you tell? I love you."

Sherlock Holmes has never been speechless, never been shocked so deeply he couldn't find some reply. John had even remarked once that he would outlive God to have the last word. But those three words from John Watson left Sherlock without the ability to speak, to think, to move. He heard them echo into his heart, that sorely abused and neglected place that John had brought to life not so long ago. _I love you I love you I love you..._

More than a minute passed, with Sherlock unmoving and staring at John. John was fairly certain Sherlock didn't even blink. He was starting to worry, and tugged on Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, you're starting to scare me. It's ok if you don't feel the same way, I know you care, that's enough for me." He hadn't even finished speaking the words before Sherlock exploded into motion, diving at John so fast he couldn't even see him move but for a blur of tan robe and dark slacks. Sherlock locked his lips to John's, hands on his shoulders, pressing him hard against the back of his chair, practically sitting in the doctor's lap. In fact he was so tightly glued to John that he just settled fully into his lap, oblivious to the grunt John made at the weight. John was stunned, but he quickly kissed Sherlock back, his heart racing at the way Sherlock was kissing him, as if he were dying and it was the last kiss they would ever share.

Sherlock pulled back, a manic grin on his face, eyes shining. "Say that again?"

"I love you." John said quietly, sincerely. It was so easy to say to this man of his, he was amazed he hadn't the nerve to say it before. "I love you."

This time John kissed Sherlock, lips firm and sure. Sherlock knew he was smiling, and that John could feel it too. They sat there for what felt like forever, Sherlock sitting in his doctor's lap. John didn't want to leave, but his conscience wouldn't let him procrastinate any longer. "I have to call her, go see her." John said quietly, nuzzling at the unbelievably soft curls next to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock sighed, and then leapt to his feet, pulling John up with him.

"Do you want company?" Sherlock asked, unsure if he was expected to be in attendance for this sort of thing or not. John knew the answer to that though.

"Um, no that might not be wise. I'll call her now, tell her to meet me back at the house." John pulled out his mobile, and just looked at it for a minute before hitting the speed dial.

Sherlock, in a rare moment of consideration for people's need for privacy, pretended to be interested in the way dust particles were floating in the air next to the windows. He waited until John finished talking, having just asked Mary to meet him back at the house. Sherlock marveled at John's willingness to break off his engagement. He found John's faith in him as charming as the man's exclamation of awe at his deductions. John ended the call, and Sherlock turned back to his doctor. He looked pale, and stared at the mobile like it was going to tell him what to do or something.

"John?" Sherlock knew that his doctor would be able to do what he must, but apparently he needed to be reminded he wasn't alone. "It's ok, you can do this. Just tell her the truth, whatever that may be. Tell her everything if you want. I know you care for her."

John nodded, and stood straighter. He smiled at Sherlock, then said, "I'll be needing a place to live after tonight, most likely."

"You already have a place to live, you just haven't been here in awhile." Sherlock smiled at his doctor, enjoying the pleased look on John's face. "I'll clean up a bit. Maybe."

* * *

Sherlock hid just inside the flat's front door, waiting until John got into the cab. Hearing it pull away from the curb, he opened the door quickly and stepped out. Thankfully the reporters had all left hours ago, so there was no one on the street to notice Sherlock hail another cab. Hopping in, he gave John's address on the other side of town. He wondered if John would notice. Most of the time he never did. Sherlock had a feeling that John would need him after his talk with Mary. Sherlock whiled away the time on the drive there scrolling through his emails, ignoring all the boring requests from potential clients. Nothing but a bunch of 2's and 3's, and an occasional 5 mixed in there. Nothing worth his time.

Pulling up Lestrade's number, he started to text.

** Anything you need me for? -SH**

**Nope. You just saved England, and you're bored already? -GL**

** My mind is a terrible thing to waste, Detective Inspector. Can't stand being bored. -SH**

** You getting bored is dangerous. I'll call you when we need you. Don't cause any trouble before then. -GL**

Lifting his head, he saw they were approaching John's street. "Stop here please, on the corner." He tossed the cabbie some notes, and stepped out. He was three houses down from John's house, on the opposite side of the street. He had been only moments behind him, so he saw John step into his door just as he got into a good position. He figured it would be an hour or so before John came back out, as Mary's car parked on the curbside clearly showed she had gotten there first. Spying a bench on the curb, he sat down and waited, eyeing the house John had gone into. He didn't think he was nervous, as much as afraid for John once he got out of that conversation. Mary didn't strike him as the type of woman to just calmly accept John leaving without a fight. She had a steel core to her that Sherlock admired, and he felt a small twinge of regret that he was stealing back his doctor. The afternoon was bleeding away into evening, the sun low on the horizon. Sherlock checked the time, and he calculated that John would be out in another ten minutes or so. He flipped screens on his mobile, and found the cab service app. Plugging in his location, he received an almost immediate alert, telling him a cab was en route.

Sherlock stood up, and began slowly walking down the street toward John's place. The lights were on all over the house, and he caught occasional glimpses of people in the windows as he approached. He saw John standing in what must be his living room, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He was facing Mary, who was standing with her arms crossed, her stance angry and defensive. Suddenly her left arm jerked up, and flung forward fast. For some reason Sherlock's heart jumped in alarm at the sight, as if he had been expecting to see something in her hand. Instead she threw something small and shiny, that bounced off of John's chest before she turned and disappeared into the depths of the house. Confused as to why Mary throwing her engagement ring at John should scare him, Sherlock paused on the street and watched John through the window. He stood there as she had left him, before slowly leaning down and picking up the ring. He placed it gently on a coffee table before turning and walking out of sight of Sherlock's window.

Sherlock heard the cab he had ordered pull up right behind him just as John stepped out his front door, closing it firmly. He caught sight of Sherlock and the cab at the same time, a smile lifting some of the sorrow from his face. John walked towards Sherlock, his bag slung over his shoulder, and with each step he stood taller, his smile getting bigger. Sherlock held out his hand, and without a word they both walked to the waiting cab hand in hand. Sherlock popped the door, and let John get in first.

"Where to?" Asked the cabbie. He started the meter and pulled out into the street.

"Home. 221B Baker Street, please." It was John who answered, making Sherlock smile. They sat in silence all the way home, John grasping Sherlock's hand.


	12. Chapter 12 The One Known as Mary

**Disclaimer: Things are about to go crazy, fair warning. Rating has been jumped up to M, and it's staying there. I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me! I really hope everyone enjoys, I shall be uploading more chapters soon. If you like it, please review! And thank you for reading!**

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**Chapter Twelve**

**"The One Known As Mary"**

The woman the world knew as Mary Morstan sat on the staircase of the now empty house she had been sharing with John Watson. He had just left moments before, taking with him a promise of a future she knew had been too good to be true.

Her finger was sore from where she'd ripped off the engagement ring, and a small part of her brain analyzed the pain and tried rubbing it away. The other part of her mind was devoted to maintaining control, to keeping her on those stairs. She wasn't about to run after him, pleading he love her more than the man he was leaving her for. No, she worked at her control so that she didn't kill him, or kill Sherlock Holmes. The rage was strong, and came crawling out of the part of her she thought long dead.

In reality, she had died five years prior, in a spectacular explosion designed to leave nothing behind but red mist. Having successfully taken out her last targets, Mary had disappeared into the explosion designed to cover all evidence, revealing her presence just long enough for there to be outside witnesses to her "death."

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one who could die and be reborn. For almost twenty years the woman now known as Mary had traversed the globe, dealing death and misery for her masters, and for profit when the mood struck her. Over seven billion people in the world, meaning there had been no shortage of jobs. What there had been a shortage of was time - which Mary had been running out of. The downside to being oh so very good at killing had been that too many people knew who she was, who she had killed, and who her masters were. It was the bane of existence for most killers; the successful ones eventually had to be "retired", as their functionality diminished after the fifteen year mark. She had been so remarkably good at her job, at disappearing, and at completing assignments with minimal evidence left behind, that her expiration date had been later than most.

So five years ago, after that last massively wonderful job, Mary had faked her death. It saved everyone the hassle of trying to take out a successful assassin without losing more assets. And so she hid, and kept her head down, changed her appearance, and dug up the name of a stillborn infant in the charming countryside of rural England. Having a functional skill in first aid and medical techniques, becoming a nurse had been as easy as breathing. As easy as any of the dozen of other roles she had played in the pursuit of her previous career. Eventually, she knew the role she was playing would become real; her talents allowing her to adapt naturally to the idioms, accents, and cultural reactions of the land she now called home. England was similar enough to her previous homeland that she took to it like a duck to water.

There she had created the life of Mary Morstan, orphaned late in life, no family to speak of, and a need to move away from painful memories, to make new friends, a new life. People tend not to ask questions about your younger years if you make it as awkward as possible for them to do so. And if you make it boring enough. No one likes to be bored.

She sobbed, catching herself before the sound slipped free in to the air. She would not weep for John Watson. She had known his love for Sherlock Holmes to be strong, so strong it was like living with another person in this house. He had still loved her, touched her, cared for her and went through the motions of enjoying their life together. But the moment Sherlock Holmes came back to life, John had changed. No, that was wrong; he hadn't changed, he had merely changed _back_ to who he was before the Fall. As if the man she had met ten months ago had been a mere cipher of who John Watson really was.

She stood, and went deeper into house, walking inside the pantry. Moving aside some canned goods, she lifted the shelf away from the wall. Running the tips of her fingers along the plaster underneath, she felt the small depression she knew to be there and pushed. A deep _clinking _noise came from within the wall, and a squared, small portion of wall popped free. Reaching inside, ignoring the dust and cobwebs, she pulled out a long, slim case, made of hardened plastic and reinforced with biometric locks along its length. She carefully let the case down on the floor, wiping the dust from its exterior. Her fingers lightly touched on the miniature scanners, and tiny beeps went off in welcoming succession. Each lock opened, and she gingerly opened the lid. Inside were the remnants of her old life. Knives, guns, silencers, small half pound bricks of sealed C4, assorted other tools. The disassembled sniper rifle gave her the greatest pause, her fingers lingering a moment before moving on. Her fingers danced among her tools, touching on them like familiar friends from old. She felt a cold breeze along the surface of her heart; she hadn't felt the need to touch these weapons, her oldest friends, in a very long time. The reassurance she got from them now steadied her heart, gave her a calm center upon which to right her rapidly dissolving world.

Mary let her love wash away to mix with her rage; holding it inside would make her useless, cripple her actions and her reflexes. She had the training to survive this; whether anyone else survived it was another matter. She cried without tears, an old skill developed early. One she hadn't used in a very long time.


	13. Chapter 13 Redecorating, with Villains

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but imitation surely is the sincerest form of flattery. Or perhaps I should say inspiration is? Please enjoy, and if you do, review!**

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**Chapter Thirteen**

**"Redecorating, with Villains"**

Night had fallen by the time they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock grabbed John's bag as they left the cab, John paying. Together they went to the door, and Sherlock opened it with his key. Each step together was familiar, each move so ingrained in them they moved around each other with ease. The lights were on behind Mrs Hudson's door, but they went straight up to Sherlock's flat without stopping.

Sherlock tossed the bag on the couch, and twirled his jacket off. He slung it up on the hook behind the door before disappearing down the hall to his room. John stopped just past the flat's door, blinking tiredly at the room where his life had just changed a few hours before. His life had changed so many times in this room, he had lost count.

John could hear Sherlock making a racket in his room, but he didn't pay much attention. He felt exhausted, strung out. He'd had the busiest and craziest day of his life - well maybe second craziest, that day with Moriarty and the pool had been a bitch. Getting strapped down with explosives and being told to repeat after a madman wasn't something you ever really got to top. That memory conjured up another, the mastery and fearlessness of Sherlock Holmes, as he faced down a monster. Thinking about Sherlock always did weird things to his head, and this time it was no different. And it wasn't just his head Sherlock was affecting.

John smiled to himself, and after a particularly loud BANG from Sherlock's room, he stopped daydreaming and walked down the hall. Sherlock had turned on all the lights as he went, the bathroom door open, his bedroom door ajar.

"What in the world are you doing?" John asked, and it was obvious from the disarray that whatever it was, Sherlock wasn't holding back. Half of Sherlock's clothes were torn from the closet, hangers dropped everywhere, with the clothing lumped on top of the bed. Sherlock was currently dragging a short dresser from the depths of his closet, and he pushed it up against the wall where there was an empty space. He then turned to his armoire, where he kept all his suits, and flung open the door. Staring at it with a fierce frown on his face, he sniffed loudly before slamming the door shut.

Sherlock didn't bother answering, instead walking past John into the bathroom. He seemed to be displeased with what he saw, as he sniffed again and stalked right back out. John just shrugged, used to the idiosyncrasies of the younger Holmes. John was so tired he just stood in Sherlock's room, staring at the very soft looking bed. It didn't matter to him that half of Sherlock's wardrobe wilted at the foot of it in a heap. All he wanted in that instant was to lay down. John distantly heard Sherlock storming down the stairs, making the turn to Mrs Hudson's flat. John laughed quietly again, as he heard Sherlock calling to his landlady, something about more towels.

_I am so tired. This has been a very long day. _John made his decision, toed off his shoes, took off his coat and cardigan, and threw himself flat on his back on Sherlock's bed. Thinking he should have killed the lights was the last thing he thought, as sleep took him quickly. He fell asleep on blankets that smelled like Sherlock, smiling.

...

"More towels? Why on earth do you need more towels? Are you experimenting again?" Mrs Hudson asked, staring at Sherlock as he raided her linen supply.

"I don't need them, John does." Sherlock replied, armful of cotton towels muffling his voice. Mrs Hudson followed behind him up the stairs, completely confused.

"Why would John need my towels? Is he experimenting now too?"

Sherlock grinned wickedly under the towels covering his face, knowing she couldn't see. "Because I already used all of mine, and he needs towels." Sherlock's answer seemed adequate to him, but Mrs Hudson was still confused.

She followed him down the hall, and stood watching as he dumped her towels onto the towel rack in the bathroom. Sherlock turned and walked to his bedroom door, where he promptly stopped. Mrs Hudson bumped into him, having expected him to keep going. "Sherlock, what is going on?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and Mrs Hudson peered around his shoulder into the room. There she saw the unexpected. John was sound asleep, laying on his back, snuggling with Sherlock's pillow. His lower legs dangled over the side of the bed, his feet almost touching the floor. He was breathing deep, face relaxed, his other hand on his stomach.

"Oh! Dear me, isn't that going to hurt his back? And why is he asleep on your bed?" Mrs Hudson whispered loudly. Sherlock stirred, and tore his eyes away from his doctor, where he had stretched out on his bed. Sherlock snagged the door, hit the lights and gently nudged Mrs Hudson out-of-the-way all in the same motion, blocking her view of John. He closed the door, being very careful not to close it as loudly as he usually did. He shut Mrs Hudson out into the hall, and he stood in the dark as his eyes adjusted. He heard her huff in annoyance before moving into his kitchen, where she started banging about, probably making tea.

Stealthily he walked over to the bed, and grabbed the clothes he'd pulled from his closet earlier. Carelessly he dropped them to the closet floor and quietly closed the door. He moved so lightly that he made no noise, ghosting across his bedroom floor to the bed. John slept on, oblivious to everything. Sherlock stopped by John's legs, and he very gently bent down and picked the doctor's feet up, and moved John so he was laying properly on the bed. The blankets got all screwed up and Sherlock was surprised that John hadn't woken up yet. Sherlock sat down next to him on the bed, and just stared. John's face was visible in the moonlight from the window, and Sherlock's eyes had adjusted enough to let him see the older man clearly in the darkness.

_His hair has more grey in it. A few more lines next to his eyes. John is here. _Sherlock felt a curious sensation, a slight tremor in his fingers. He raised his hand, and so very slowly, reached out to John's face. He paused a hair's breadth from his temple, fingers just itching to touch. Sherlock gave in to the temptation, and he traced his fingers across John's cheek, to his mouth, followed the bottom edge of his lips before lifting away. His touch had been feather light, but somehow John stirred awake, his eyes blinking hazily from exhaustion. He seemed at a loss for where he was, then awareness flooded back into his eyes. He didn't speak, and neither did Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his hand again, his fingers whispering across the other man's jaw line, from his ear to his mouth. Sherlock couldn't tell for sure, but he thought he saw a blush creep across John's cheeks. As his fingers got to his lips, John lifted his own hand and caught at Sherlock's shirt, pulling him down to him. Sherlock went willingly, and stretched out beside John, his arm next to his head, propping him up. John kept tugging, and Sherlock dipped his head, and somehow their lips found each other in the dark. Sherlock was half laying on top of John, his weight mostly on his arm and hip. John's other hand had found its way into his hair, tugging at his curls. The kiss was chaste and slow, deepening for only a heartbeat before John let Sherlock lift back up. It was dark, Sherlock's long form casting shadows. Neither could see each other clearly, but the emotions swirling between them were tangible. Sherlock noted in the back of his mind that he was breathing faster, and he hadn't wanted to stop. John's hand was very distracting, playing with his hair.

"Is that Mrs Hudson out there, making all that racket?" John whispered, his breath blowing into Sherlock's ear.

"Mmmm." Sherlock leaned down, and tried to catch John's mouth again. John laughed, and began to sit up.

"We can't hide in here this early at night, with the lights off, making out with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen brewing tea!" John sat up on the bed, as Sherlock groaned and fell onto his back.

"Why ever not?" That seemed like a perfectly logical thing to Sherlock, but he wasn't the expert on snogging your flatmate. He groaned again in protest as John climbed over him to hop off the bed.

John gasped and jumped as Sherlock 'helped' him, his fingers sneaking into places unexpected. Sherlock was surprisingly willing to be physical with him, and John was flustered. _Most likely an accident? Oh God, it probably wasn't! But damn that felt good!_

"Stop it!" John hissed, trying not to laugh. This entire evening was surreal, and he felt like he was in a dream. It was a turn he would never have expected for his life to take. He would've felt lost if this had been any other person but Sherlock; but because it _was _his detective, he had a compass of sorts. "Did you tell her anything?"

"Tell her what? That we made out, you said you loved me, and then you broke it off with your fiancé, after which you promptly moved back home, and you then fell asleep in my bed?"

"Um, yeah that. Tell her any of that?" John flicked on the light, making Sherlock throw his arm over his eyes and lament under his breath about the stubbornness of a certain doctor. John cracked open the door, and peered down the hall.

"Haven't said a word, thought it would've been obvious, really." Sherlock sat up, and bounced back to his feet. He crowded behind John, wondering why he hadn't just opened the door and gone out if he was so determined that they not be making out instead. He reached over John's head, pulled the door open, and walked out into the hall.

"Sherlock! Jesus!" John hesitated at the door a second, before slowly walking down to the kitchen. Sherlock smirked at John's nervousness, and he sat himself down at the table. It was still remarkably clear, as he hadn't had chance to muck it up since breakfast. Mrs Hudson had the teacups ready, waiting on her boys to finally come out of that bedroom. She had a small suspicion what was going on in there, but she didn't want to judge too early.

She gave Sherlock his tea, a splash of milk and sugar, and a couple of biscuits. She eyed John looking lost next to the table before he finally sat down next to Sherlock.

"John? Tea? No sugar, I remembered this time." She asked, smiling. His hair was all askew, like someone had run their fingers through it. Sherlock was in much the same state. Hard to tell with that head of curls though.

"Yes, thank you." He kept avoiding her eyes, like he had no idea how he was supposed to act. Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson's eye, and winked.

"John broke it off with Mary after he confessed he loved me, and now he's moving back in." Sherlock deadpanned, keeping his face straight, sipping his tea. John choked on his, coughing. He glared at Sherlock, who was ignoring him. "And I've been kissing him all afternoon." Sherlock fought off a grin as John glared daggers at him, his face getting red.

"John? You broke it off with Mary? Well, there goes a spring wedding!" She busied herself with pouring Sherlock another cup, missing John's shocked expression. Sherlock couldn't contain himself anymore, laughing at the look John had on his face. Mrs Hudson was sad there wouldn't be a pretty bride and flowers and a lovely reception. But from the way Sherlock was acting, and the bemused look on the doctor's face as Sherlock continued laughing, she knew everything was alright. Her boys were back together. John's face was hilarious, but he calmed down once Sherlock stopped laughing so hard.

Sherlock had his mobile out, clicking away. He slowly reached over to John without looking, palm up, pale fingers waiting. John stifled a smile, and very casually placed his hand into the detective's.

Mrs Hudson smiled, and began to think that maybe there might be a spring wedding after all.

...

**Meanwhile, that same night...**

**London- CAM Headquarters**

Charles Augustus Magnussen stood at the windowed wall of his bedroom, thirty stories above the streets of London. His gaze vacant, detached, he perused the streets below, the buildings of the skyline. He had just been brought news that displeased him, and the messenger stood quietly at the door to his room, sweating profusely. He could smell the stink of fear practically rolling off the man in waves, and it was a small comfort. He lifted his right hand from his side, and a part of him registered the slight twitch from the man at the doorway. He smiled, knowing it couldn't been seen, and brought his forefinger to tap away at the window.

_Taptaptaptap..._ He watched idly as his fingerprints smeared the clean surface, leaving defined smudges in a small spot. His hands were always wet, leaving little bits and traces of himself everywhere. It pleased him, leaving himself behind wherever he went. Left inside the decisions of corrupt politicians, the despair of an indiscreet housewife of a millionaire, the violation of trust from a clergyman; Charles Augustus Magnussen had snaked his way inside of it all. And there he made his living, feeding like a shark from the blood spilled by secrets. Secrets that everyone held. Everyone.

The greatest enjoyment he got was finding that weakness, those secrets. The first time he twisted the blade on an asset was the sweetest. He held the knowledge best suited to hurt thousands, and he wanted more. Always more. And he knew the man who held all the secrets he could ever want. The one man just out of reach. Who had just slipped away a little further from his grasp, though he had yet to know it.

The little tidbit of news his spy had brought him put an unexpected hiccup into his plans, potentially putting them on hold indefinitely. It seemed his one piece of leverage up the chain to his target had just broken, a weak link. The failure of the woman known as Mary Morstan to keep the heart of one Dr Watson was unexpected, to say the least. No matter, he would find another way. Some other weakness to worm his way into the protected circle around his target.

Charles Augustus Magnussen, the Napoleon of Blackmail, wanted the secrets kept by the man who was whispered to be the physical embodiment of the British Government.

Mycroft Holmes.

And he would do anything to acquire him, and his secrets. No matter who he burned in the pursuit.


	14. Chapter 14 As far as YOU want

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me!**

** WARNING: This chapter gets explicit. And very detailed. This chapter is the only one so far I'd rate M, so I'm not changing the story's overall rating. Please enjoy if you're feeling brave! Reviews make me happy!**

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**Chapter Fourteen **

**"As far as you want"**

John lifted his head from his arm, realizing he'd fallen asleep sometime after eating the sandwich Mrs Hudson had made him. He was still at the table, and his back and neck were complaining loudly, telling him he'd been there for a while. The flat was quiet, a fire burning low in the hearth. Gentle pops and sizzles from the fire was the only noise, and Sherlock was no where in sight.

John lifted his arms and stretched up, his back popping, muscles loosening. Used to be not that long ago he could sleep anywhere and wake up refreshed, whether it be a sand dune in a frigid winter desert, or in a creepy morgue while Sherlock and Molly tore through evidence on a corpse. The last couple of years had been hard on him, his usual exercise chasing after criminals being in short supply. Catching the time on his old scratched up watch, John groaned. It was well past midnight; he'd slept at the table for a few hours. Wondering why Sherlock or Mrs Hudson hadn't woken him up, John stood unsteadily and went looking for his flatmate. Or his, well, _boyfriend? significant other? Doesn't matter, figure it out later..._

The lights were off in the front room, but the fire cast enough of it that he could see his bag was gone from the couch. Forehead crunching, he pondered where it went. Upstairs in his old room? Mrs Hudson putting his things away? He turned towards the door, intending to find out and hit the sack.

He got to the threshold before a faint sound caught his attention. Was it his name? It had come from down the hall, near Sherlock's room. There was a very faint glow coming from his bedroom, the door open partway but the light was too low to tell if it was Sherlock. It came again, and was definitely his name. Suddenly nervous, John wiped his hands on his trousers and waited, unsure of what to do. His head went from foggy with sleep to brilliantly clear, adrenaline coursing through him. He felt that nameless beast stir inside, a faint flick of heat catching him unawares.

"John, stop being ridiculous."

Definitely Sherlock. John felt stuck, his feet glued to the floor. He literally did not know what to do, let alone how to make his feet move. He thought he heard Sherlock sigh, as if exasperated. Which he most likely was. A shadow moved in the dim light, and he thought he saw Sherlock's silhouette briefly framed by the door. John swallowed, certain the other man could hear him. He found one foot lifting, then the other, until he was slowly moving towards that voice. Pulled to that voice.

_Oh God... breathe John breathe!_ His lungs were burning; no, every inch of him was slowly burning, like the fire in the hearth. Blood rushing in his ears, fingers tingling, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. That nameless beast he was one day going to name _lust _growled in the depths of his soul, and it was if it reached out, and nudged the door open all the way.

The small desk lamp in the far corner of the room glowed dimly, casting enough light for him to see the layout of the room. The shadow he knew was Sherlock stood at the end of the bed, his shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets. John breathed deep, and held it briefly before letting it out. He stood there, and waited. He thought he was feeling terror, but his hands were steady, his body well-adjusted to it, even after the last few years of gentle living.

"Come to bed John." It was a snap of electricity across his synapses, _ricocheting_ into his limbs, his heart. John found himself smiling, his fingers curling in, relaxing. He wanted his hands somewhere for certain, but he had enough of his faculties intact that he knew better than to rush _anything._ For both of them.

John stepped into the room, and silently shut the door behind him. There was a lock on it barely used, and he forced it shut, uncaring if he wouldn't be able to open it in the morning. He walked to the corner of the bed, stopping. He was within arm's reach of Sherlock now, and he could hear him breathing.

"Come to bed? Sleeping?" He asked quietly, needing to know what Sherlock wanted, what he intended. John's caution was warring with that fire beast called lust, and Sherlock's answer would determine who won.

Sherlock's answer was subtle, but very clear. He stepped to John, his hands finding their way to John's sides, running them down to his hips. His head came down, and John felt those very soft curls brush against the side of his face. Sherlock's voice whispered into his ear, his breath teasing, that deep voice making him shiver in response. "Sleeping...eventually." His lips found the soft skin below his ear, warm and firm.

Desire defeating caution in the battle for John's choices, he reached for Sherlock in the dim light. Hands catching at the front of Sherlock's shirt, John held him tight, seeking out his mouth with his own. Their lips sealed together, tongues clashing. John heard a ripping noise, and felt tiny impacts on his chest... the buttons from Sherlock's shirt bouncing off him as it ripped. The temperature in the room was rising, building off the heat between them. Sherlock gasped as John touched his bare chest, skin jumping beneath his fingertips. John pulled at the shirt, ripping it further and yanking it off his lover's body. He didn't care where he threw it, as his hands were too busy rushing over lean muscles, tight smooth skin...

John was swimming in a dream of disbelief - that this was real, that it all felt _so_ _good. _He felt like a fool for being afraid; he wanted more. Sherlock's hands, his fingers tugged lightly at John's own shirt, lifting it from the waistband of his trousers. Every move this man made drove him past the edge of sanity. He was more aroused than any other point in his entire adult life. Nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt, without Sherlock once taking his mouth from John's. It wasn't until the cooler air of the room hit his own naked torso that he drew in enough air to say "Slow... down."

Panting hard, Sherlock lifted his head, and whispered into John's mouth, "Why? Feels so good..." His lips went for John's throat, nipping and licking his way down to his shoulder.

"Too good... Sherlock!" John groaned, and caught at Sherlock's hands as the man zeroed in on the top button of his fly. "This will be over real quick if you keep this up!"

Sherlock stilled, his fingers pausing just as that first button popped free. Lifting his head from John's shoulder, he lightly kissed at John's mouth in tiny, easy kisses. His hands weren't moving, but they weren't leaving either. John struggled to slow down his heart rate, and lifted his hands away from Sherlock's.

"How far do you want this to go, Sherlock?" John struggled to speak, holding tight to his control. Sherlock stopped kissing him, lifting his head slightly. From the faint glow from the lamp, John could see his lover crinkle his brow, as if he was actually debating it.

"I don't understand. How far does this sort of thing usually go?" Sherlock asked. John wanted to scream. _He is completely serious, dear God..._

"Have you EVER done this before? With anyone? Male, female, whatever?" John had to know, it was driving him insane. Being this restrained was killing him; he hadn't felt passion like this since he was a very young man. And feeling it again on the shady side of forty was making him rue his self-restraint! He about lost his tenuous hold on it when he realized Sherlock was idly dipping his fingers in and out from behind his zipper. Close enough to touch, but not quite there...

"I know the mechanics of intercourse, if that's what's worrying you, but as for actually doing 'this'... No. Never." Sherlock's voice was hesitant. "Is that not good?"

John laughed, and reached for Sherlock, his arms going around the taller man's neck. "It's all good. This goes as far as you want, Sherlock. Tell me." He stood on his toes, kissing Sherlock's neck.

"I want to touch you...everywhere." John's whole body shook once, but Sherlock wasn't done. "I want to make you _happy_, John." _Happy, oh I'm happy alright... ooooooooohhhh he means..._ John's heart rate exploded, and he absolutely couldn't find the air to breathe. All he could do was catch Sherlock's eye, and nod very slowly. Sherlock moved himself towards the bed, and sat on its edge. His fingers still had a grip on John's fly, and John moved with him, finding himself standing between the younger man's knees. He gulped in air, and he started to shake, shivers of abject terror, crazy disbelief, and overwhelming lust chasing each other across his whole body. It was intoxicating, and he lost all semblance of control the second Sherlock grabbed the zipper tab and started pulling. _Yeesssss..._

"Oh God... Sherlock." John's head fell back, and he closed his eyes. His hands went to Sherlock's shoulders, and held on for dear life. Any thought of anything ever going slow from that point on didn't exist. Sherlock was pulling down that zipper, and each tooth releasing was a pleasure and a torment all in one. He was heavily aroused, straining to break free, and his fingers dug into Sherlock's lean shoulders. Finally, his erection was freed, Sherlock tugging his underwear out-of-the-way. Long, strong fingers ghosted around his groin, coming close then flirting away before touching him directly. John moaned, the cool air of the room a harsh contrast against the heat pouring off of him. Sherlock leaned forward, and kissed just below his navel. John wanted to cry, he literally wanted to cry in that moment. Sherlock's hands drifted closer, closer, then like a dream slipped around him. Both of his hands gripped, gently at first, then tighter, making John jump. At that same second, Sherlock kissed him again, a little lower.

John let his hands drift up, and dug deep into Sherlock's hair. He just barely managed to keep his grip from being too tight before Sherlock kissed him just above his groin, tongue licking out between his lips. He began to move his hands, hesitantly at first, then as John moved with him, with more confidence. Up and back down, tight then loose, Sherlock quickly learned what got the best reaction from his doctor. It wasn't until Sherlock's mouth was _right there fuck yes there! _that John screamed, strangling the sound behind clenched teeth. Sherlock moved his mouth, his hot wet mouth right over the head of his cock, and sucked gently once before lifting away. His hands worked that perfect rhythm he'd found so easily, making John cry out softly each time he started over. His mouth, his tongue would randomly appear, wrap themselves around his length, sucking him in deeper each time. Sherlock tormented him like this for an eternity, or so it seemed. It could have been minutes, or hours, John couldn't tell, nor care. John was so close, this perfection he was experiencing dragging him to the edge, his climax was _there! _

His climax exploded behind his eyes like a supernova, his hips jerking, and he came in a great wave, letting it wash from the opposite ends of his body to crash together in his center, spilling forth from him in long, deep spurts across Sherlock's hands and arms. John's legs lost all ability to support him, and he leaned what was left of himself on Sherlock. Gasping for air, body deprived of oxygen, sparks of pleasure erupting inside his brain, John Watson was utterly slain by this man who held him up, smiling against his bare stomach.

John didn't know how long Sherlock held him up, one arm wrapped tightly around his hips. He came back to reality slowly, and he realized Sherlock was wiping them both off with the remains of his shirt. "Oh God, Sherlock..." He leaned down, and lightly kissed him on the top of his head.

"You keep confusing us, John. Understandable, I suppose." Sherlock sounded smug, like he'd just solved the world's toughest case and then shown off on national television making the NSY look idiotic.

John laughed, and gingerly stepped out of his trousers and underwear. He scooped them off the floor, and tossed them towards the hamper.

"What about you, Mr Holmes?" John asked, totally uncaring he was standing bare-assed naked in front of Sherlock. Well, he had socks on, but the floors were cold. Sherlock was staring at him, and John felt a frisson of response, much to his delight and surprise.

"Time to sleep, yes? Isn't that what usually happens after an orgasm?" John couldn't figure out if Sherlock was being serious or not.

"Ummmm, usually both partners have one of those, you know." John was swaying on his feet, and exhaustion was dragging at his brain, making him want to giggle. It was so surreal, having a conversation about sex with Sherlock, especially after Sherlock had just put his hands and mouth all over him...

"Well, considering you're about to pass out on your feet, my dear doctor, let's worry about me tomorrow. Come here." Sherlock snagged his hand, and he stood, reaching behind him to drag down the covers.

"What? Oh." Sherlock tugged, and a very unresisting John fell into the warm softness of Sherlock's bed. He crawled until he found a pillow, realising in the back of his brain that Sherlock must have put new sheets on the bed while he was sleeping in the kitchen. The light clicked off in the corner of the room, and he heard drawers opening and shutting somewhere nearby. Then he felt the weight of Sherlock laying down, the blankets floating over them both. The last thing he remembered before sleep snatched him under was the weight of a strong arm wrapping itself around his hips, and a brief kiss on his forehead.


	15. Chapter 15 No morning quite like it

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. This is really just the first half of this portion of the story, the rest shall come soon. Here is the villainy I promised, hopefully it will be worthy of our Great Detective. Please, enjoy! And review!**

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**Chapter Fifteen**

**"No morning quite like it"**

Detective Inspector Lestrade was surrounded by a war zone. Not that he'd actually been to one, but he'd seen enough on TV to know that if he was ever to call a crime scene a war zone, it was here and now.

They were in an abandoned warehouse district on the shore of the Thames, the buildings around them decrepit and crumbling. The buildings were really just shells, some with roofs and walls, others with just the bare support structures on cracked foundations. It looked like a dead forest of concrete trees, with alleys and streets littered by rubble and debris. Having been abandoned for the better part of twenty years, the degenerates of the city had spread through the area like a plague, destroying anything that remained. And even they had eventually moved on, as the buildings and walls around them became condemned death traps, too dangerous to provide shelter during the harsh, wet winters. This area was so off the beaten path, forgotten by the world, that it had literally taken it exploding in the middle of the night for people to remember it was there.

There was a faint stink of gunpowder and sulfur hanging on the cold autumn air, and the wind howling through the walls of the warehouses moved the spent shells that littered the ground. There were so many of them the ground seemed to glow a weird bronze color in the sunlight. Bullet holes by the thousands decorated the remaining walls, scorch marks from explosions running over the ground, up walls, concrete dust blowing in the cold winds. The neighboring areas had reported hearing what sounded like thunder coming from the abandoned properties, that went on for the better part of two hours. It wasn't until the orange glow of fires were spotted by a patrol car sent to investigate that anyone even took the reports seriously. That officer had called it in, saying it sounded like a massive gunfight was raging inside the grounds, and that he needed immediate backup.. mainly because he had no idea how to get into the gated off area. The grounds had been overgrown by trees and bushes, the one remaining road reduced to a gravel memory twisting through the wild growth. So that one officer was forced to stand and watch as the horizon lit up again and again from the fiery shockwaves that shook the trees, and made the earth tremble beneath his feet. He had reported it all back over the radio, and Scotland Yard had emptied as fast as possible. By the time reinforcements had arrived, it was well past four in the morning, and it then took another hour to get all the emergency vehicles into the complex. Even then, the responders had to go on foot, as there was no place left in the massive complex that a vehicle could drive over.

The commotion had stopped as the dozens of armed officers had finally breached the outer buildings, dying away impossibly fast, smoke still blowing in the wind that came off the river. They had seen no one, heard no signs of people - there had been nothing to explain the craters in the ground, the spent shell casings. And once the sun rose, there was nothing to explain the blood.

Great pools of it congealed in the morning sunlight, the stink of wet blood inescapable. It was everywhere. The smell was almost as bad as the prevalent, disturbing realization that _there were no bodies._ Blood ran as rivers into the low-lying areas, and there were no bodies. The blood seemed to be centered mostly in the middle of the complex, with officers reporting smaller pools and puddles found in out lying areas. The search dogs had found no bodies, and no explosives left in the area. As each tactical team cleared a zone, the forensic teams swept in, only to be confounded by what they were seeing, and on such a large scale. They had no place of origin, nothing to start from. The chaos had appeared out of nowhere, and they had no idea what caused any of it.

Lestrade was at a loss, standing at the outskirts of the main portion of the complex, next to the command tent. People were rushing everywhere. He was just staring at the chaos around him, when he noticed a young forensic tech standing at his elbow, trying to get his attention. He had to report soon to his superiors, and he had no clue what he was going to say.

"Sir? We... we... we found something." He looked pale, and visibly shaken, though that could just be because everyone else was too. But there was something in his eyes, something that said that what they'd found scared him at a new level.

"Show me." Lestrade snapped out of his haze, and followed on the heels of the tech as he scurried through the rubble. He led Lestrade to where about a dozen other people were standing, staring at a wall that had miraculously survived relatively intact. It was facing away from most of the destruction, which would explain why whatever it was had only been found now. Lestrade forced his way through the crowd, and what he saw stopped him cold.

Words written in what looked like blood, by means that bore no relation to human hands. They stood almost two meters tall, the letters swooping and diving among the cracks and bullet holes. How they looked was creepy enough, but the phrase itself is what made Lestrade swear out loud, his hand reaching for his mobile. They practically screamed out from the wall:

_**WE WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF HIM**_

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Sunrise breaking across his eyes was what woke him at first, followed by the realization that there was a person in his bed. Having never had another person sleep next to him before in his life, it was John's leg thrown over his hip that wakened him all the way.

Sherlock was flat on his back, the warm morning sunlight annoying. Turning his head from the window, Sherlock was able to see John deeply asleep next to him, his head close to Sherlock's on the pillow. His breath was coming out in little puffs across Sherlock's neck, and John had his arms wrapped tightly around his arm and shoulder. It was if he had grabbed onto Sherlock in the middle of a dream, and refused to let go. Sherlock was highly surprised that John laying on him hadn't woken him up sooner. He had known sleeping with someone in his bed was going to be a new experience, and he had figured it was best to get it over with quickly, so as to get used to it faster. Sound logic, if it wasn't for the fact he had wanted him there with him, too.

Sherlock thought about it, and realised that it was actually fairly pleasant. The morning air was cold, and the heat coming off of John was welcome. Somehow the blankets had worked down around their hips, and it didn't look like he could pull them up without dislodging John. He couldn't tell what time it was, but from the angle of the sun, it was obviously very early in the morning still. Far earlier than he usually got up.

Sherlock looked at John's face, relaxed in sleep. He looked younger, his worries gone while he slept. Sherlock knew that some of the new lines around John's eyes were because of him, and what he'd put his doctor through the last two years. Sherlock closed his eyes against the thought, regret grabbing ahold of his heart before he could banish it. He had listened to Mycroft, and not gone back for John. Moriarty's network had people watching him, and seeing John's behavior change, no matter how subtle he might have played his reaction to knowing Sherlock was indeed alive, would have been enough to endanger them all. He knew that, but a part of him had screamed at him to go to John that day in the graveyard. He had been so broken, and John's grief had called to him.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock banished his pain, and let himself feel content in the moment. So very rarely was he allowed to feel anything close to contentment, and this feeling John was generating inside of him was the closest he had ever gotten. Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes. John was awake, and blinking slowly at him, smiling at him sleepily.

"Hi." John murmured, still tired and sounding like it. One of his hands lost the grip it had on Sherlock's arm, and swept across his bare chest to catch him in a half hug. John snuggled closer, half awake and clearly happy to be where he was. Sherlock marveled again at the wonder that was John Watson; as soon as he had confronted the fact that he loved Sherlock, and that he was attracted to him, his reticence and disbelief faded away hour by hour until they got to the point they did last night. Sherlock had never identified himself as anything; gay, straight, bisexual, asexual. Nothing. It hadn't been important, so he hadn't really thought about it. The chances of him getting involved with another human being to the degree he had with John had always seemed like an impossibility. Yet for all that, Sherlock knew that this shift in John's self-identity couldn't be easy, and he made himself a promise to be diligent with his doctor. Sherlock may never have had sexual orientation issues, but from what he knew of the world, it wouldn't be seamless for John.

Sherlock tipped his head to John, and kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock felt the little tingle of excitement that jumped from his lips to his bloodstream, traveling through his body to all sorts of new places. He had never been this attuned to his body before, it had always been transport, and therefore maintained enough to support his brain. He found that stimulating the body was in turn quieting the storm of thoughts and theories that usually drove him to distraction when he didn't have a case. He knew intuitively that it was a natural progression of the centering affect John already had on him; it seemed that John Watson was destined to be a part of Sherlock forever.

That buzzing little current of excitement was stirring things up inside of him, and he reached down for another kiss before he realized that the buzzing he was hearing wasn't actually coming from inside, but from the nightstand. Sherlock turned is head, and saw his mobile lighting up with numerous text messages, and the screen clearly said he had several missed calls. He'd thrown it on vibrate after John's predawn call, and hadn't changed it back. Sherlock reached out and snagged it off the nightstand. Just as he went to open the screen, another call came through. Seeing that it was Lestrade, Sherlock sighed and answered.

"What?" He growled, annoyed. He had been about to do something interesting, and he didn't need Scotland Yard interrupting.

"Oh thank God! You weren't answering, I was about to send patrol cars out to find you!" Lestrade's voice was angry, and even frightened. He was obviously in an area with a lot of people, but the sound of the wind made it clear he was outside somewhere. He could hear vehicles moving, but it wasn't the sound of London traffic, and it wasn't the garage at the Yard. "Where are you?"

"I'm relaxing in bed, trying to have a good morning. How are you, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock wasn't in the mood to deal with other people now, unless it was John. The anger is his voice made John stir, having fallen back asleep on Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He murmured, lifting his head. "Is that Greg on the phone?"

Silence was on the other end of the line, and Sherlock knew Lestrade had recognized John's voice. Sherlock sighed, and said sarcastically, "Yes, that was John, yes I'm in bed, and yes it's what you're thinking. WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

A pause, then Lestrade seemed to pull himself out of his shock. "We need you. Now. I'm sending some patrol cars for you. Be ready in twenty minutes. Bring John." Lestrade hung up, not giving Sherlock a chance to say no thank you. Sherlock tossed his mobile back to the nightstand, and heaved a big sigh. He hugged John to him for a moment, regretfully. He had been looking forward to finding out what his morning in bed would have been like today.

"Wake up, Dr Watson. Be thankful it's the weekend, your schedule just filled up. Lestrade has an emergency on his hands, and as usual needs me. Whatever it is big enough for him to send a multiple car police escort. Twenty minutes... you'll probably need your gun."

"What? My gun... yeah I've got it somewhere? In my bag, wherever that went... Twenty minutes! Ugh it isn't even time for breakfast yet!" John was not happy, and Sherlock grinned, his own bad mood evaporating. John sat up in bed, and was struggling to free his legs from the blankets. Totally naked. Except for his socks. Sherlock just propped himself up on his elbows, and watched. He couldn't help himself, and started chuckling. He rolled off his side of the bed, and tugged the blankets off of John. John noticed he was naked at the same time he also noticed that Sherlock was wearing very thin white cotton pajama pants that clung to everything. His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and he stared. Hard. Sherlock grinned at him, and said one word that got his attention quickly.

"Shower."

It was a race into the bathroom after that, which ended up being a draw as the bedroom door wouldn't open at first for some reason. Sherlock yanked on the doorknob, and the door gave a screech as it opened.

Sherlock had been busy while John slept at the kitchen table the night before. He had emptied John's go bag, putting his toiletries back where they had once been, before the Fall. His clothes had gone into the dresser Sherlock had pulled from his closet, John's gun nestled in with his socks. John blinked at his stuff arranged neatly on the shelves.

Sherlock opened the water in the shower on high, dropped his pajama pants, and hopped in, uncaring that the water was alternately hot and freezing cold. John grinned, and peeled his socks off before joining his detective. There was enough room for both of them under the spray, and Sherlock watched warily as John reached for the soap and came at him with it. John made a little motion with his hand, and Sherlock turned around. He washed his hair while John made very extra special attention to his back with that soap. Sherlock felt conflicted; he was so unused to anyone touching him, especially in such a personal way, that he felt unnerved. But this was John, the one person in all the world Sherlock trusted beyond measure. And John's hands were getting a reaction from him, a very prompt and independent reaction. Sherlock grinned, and tried to settle the current of unease he felt. _E__mbarrassment? People have seen me naked before... Never aroused, certainly. The body is much the same, isn't it? Why do I not want to turn around?_

Sherlock turned anyway, once John put his hands on his shoulders, and found himself fully under the spray, pressed to the wall. He felt his blood burning, and John took full notice of the state Sherlock was in. His hands followed the musculature of Sherlock's chest, across his smooth stomach, and lower. John stopped though, as he had felt Sherlock tense up slightly, his stomach muscles sucking in. Sherlock cursed himself for showing any reaction. No one, in the entirety of the world, had ever touched him there, where John was going. _Am I afraid? What the hell is wrong with me? I want him to touch me, my body wants it, but I can't seem to let him get there... _

John stopped, and he put the soap back on the little alcove in the stall. He reached up, adjusted the spray, and let the water wash over them both, rinsing the soap away. He didn't avoid Sherlock's eyes, but he made no move to touch him where he had been going earlier. John seemed to know, he just _knew somehow, _what was going through Sherlock's head. And he wasn't upset at all. Sherlock eyed John, slightly disbelieving that anyone could be so understanding, and be so politely subtle about it too. Sherlock relaxed, the tension melting away, and he reached a hand out, and stroked John's cheek lightly with his thumb. John gave him a sweet smile, and they both finished washing off in silence.

They shared sink space, both finishing up at the same time. Sherlock walked back into his room, calling to John, "Your clothes are in here, the dresser there. Your gun's in there too, under the green socks."

"You just moved me right in, didn't you? " John said, smiling to take away any offense. Sherlock winked at him, pulling a suit from his wardrobe.

"No point in pretending you were going to end up anywhere else. My room's next to the bathroom." _And I can't seem to stop wanting you with me..._

Sherlock was in a particular mood, and he dressed himself in blacks slacks, a shirt so white it looked like snow on Christmas morning, and a very form-fitting black jacket. Same leather shoes. Some things never change. He felt more in control in those clothes, more like the old Sherlock. Closing the door, he ran his fingers through his rioting curls, deliberating making it look like he never bothered with product.

Sherlock saw John laughing at him quietly in the mirror's refection, having caught him preening like a teen. Sherlock ignored him, and sauntered out of the bedroom to the front room. He grabbed his kit from the desk, making sure it was fully stocked. His coat was hanging from the door still, and he thoroughly checked to make sure all of his pockets had his additional tools, his knife, and that the items in the hidden pockets were still present. He heard John loading his gun as he came down the hall, coming into the room as he tucked it into his back waistband, under his jumper.

"Just in time; our escort has arrived." Outside the sound of several cars screeching to a halt could be heard, brakes complaining. The lights from the patrol cars could be seen reflecting through the windows. Sherlock twirled on his coat, and draped his scarf around his neck as he took the stairs two at a time out of the flat. John was right behind him on his heels.

They burst out of the front door just as a very startled Sally Donovan was raising her fist to bang on it. Her face went pale, and her eyes slid past Sherlock to land on John.

"Donovan, how lovely to see you after all this time. I see you've been handling my demise better than Anderson." _Though if she doesn't stop drinking herself to sleep every night she won't for long._

Her typical snark wasn't present, as she was still staring at John. Sherlock turned to his doctor, raised a brow at the utter rage and disgust pouring off him, his eyes screaming bloody murder. John looked quite capable of shooting Donovan where she stood. Sherlock wrapped his fingers tightly around John's elbow, and very carefully pulled him past the unmoving Donovan towards the cars pulled up to the curb. Five patrol cars and a personal vehicle had come for them. Lestrade's silver BMW was the one closest, though the Inspector wasn't present. A uniform was behind the wheel, talking to someone on a radio. Sherlock popped the rear door, shoved the livid doctor in the backseat, and said over his shoulder before hopping in himself, "I believe we've been summoned, do stop dawdling." He slammed the door shut, and looked at John.

The shorter man was a bundle of rage and rigid control - the set of his shoulders and the fierce glint of his eyes bespoke the fury that built up in him at the sight of the very irrelevant policewoman. John was trying to calm himself, his fists clenched on his thighs, breathing through his teeth. Sherlock looked back at Donovan, who was slowly coming to the car, and seemed indecisive about getting in the front passenger seat. Sherlock dismissed her, and turned back to John. Touched in no small way by John's obvious distaste at her presence, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his gloved fingers around the clenched fist closest to him. As soon as he took John's hand, John stopped staring at Donovan, and looked at Sherlock. He seemed to remember where he was, and his doctor steadily relaxed. He eased his fingers enough to intertwine his fingers with Sherlock's. Donovan chose that moment to get in to the car, and as soon as she settled in, the patrol cars lit up, and the convoy pulled away from the curb, tearing out of Baker Street far faster than was wise.

Donovan kept herself looking forward, and dialed Lestrade. "Yeah Boss it's me, I've got them both, ETA twenty minutes." She paused, listening, "Yes sir, I'll fill him in."

She hung up the phone, and without daring to turn around, began talking.

"Sometime between midnight and two AM this morning, dispatch received several complaints about disturbances from an abandoned warehouse complex on the south bank of the river, just outside city limits. When a patrol car was eventually sent to the area to investigate, he radioed for backup immediately. He reported seeing what he thought were explosions, heard gunfire, and several other sounds he was unable to identify. By the time reinforcements arrived, and were able to get through to the site, whatever it was, was over. We have confirmed two dozen plus explosions, potentially thousands of rounds fired, and ... well, you'll see when we get there, Lestrade said he'll fill in the rest."

"Where, exactly? You said abandoned warehouses?" Sherlock asked, settling back into the seat, his side along John's, no space between them.

"Yes, south bank, the northern property line on the river..." Sherlock phased out her voice, and he looked in the direction they were heading. The patrol cars in front of them were clearing traffic, and they were making good time through the city. She had told Lestrade their ETA was twenty minutes; and with that Sherlock had a fairly clear idea of where they were heading. And the comment about the police backup finally making it through to the site narrowed it down. Sherlock closed his eyes, and sank deep inside of his mind, and conjured up the maps of London before him, looking down at the city in a bird's-eye view. He flew over the streets of London, swooping and diving towards the river, intuition and memory leading him to his target.

The place they were going was along the south bank of the river, a large multi-building compound once used for storing hazardous materials. Closed over twenty years ago, and left to rot for just as long. The government had eventually stepped in and condemned the property, letting the wildlife along the river reclaim it. The northernmost edge of the property was literally on the river's edge - a twenty-foot concrete and rock wall rose out of the river, the walls of the buildings a dozen feet from the waters of the Thames. The complex spread south away from the river, towards the old access roads, which had been overrun by plant growth, making passage almost impossible by vehicle. _I know this place! _

Sherlock snapped back to reality, aware that John had known he'd "stepped away." He talked over Donovan, who was in the process of saying that the police had no idea what the place had once been, let alone who owned it. Idiots.

"Blackwood Chemical Storage and Treatment Facility, abandoned twenty years ago after the death of the principle owner. Condemned by the government fifteen years ago." Sherlock said calmly, like he was commenting on the weather.

The car went quiet, even the driver casting glances in the rear view mirror at him, like he couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock kept his face innocently serene as Donovan looked over her shoulder at him in shock. John had a huge grin on his face, and started laughing quietly behind his free hand. Sherlock expected a "freak" comment from Donovan, but she cast a wary glance at John and just texted Lestrade, presumably telling him Sherlock's information. John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock turned to his doctor. The look in his eyes warmed Sherlock to his core, and he felt like his was back in that bedroom, holding John.

"I've missed watching you do that," John said softly, voice intimate in the quiet car.

"Don't worry my dear doctor, you'll never have to miss it again." Sherlock's attention was only for the man beside him. He knew Donovan had turned completely around at this point, her face a mask of pure disbelief, but neither man cared.


	16. Chapter 16 Deductions and Declarations

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he owns my heart! Enjoy the second half of the case chapters, and I promise more villainy, more love, more drama to come. Please leave a review if you're in the mood. Have fun, I know I did!**

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**Chapter Sixteen**

**"Deductions and Declarations"**

Sherlock stood alone in the one clear spot in the center of the Blackwood compound, ignoring everyone. Well, less ignoring and more dismissive of things irrelevant to his process. He would look in one cardinal direction before moving to the next, eyes soaking up everything, his mind analyzing and weighing all that his senses picked up.

He had completely ignored Lestrade's attempt to explain anything, and instead stormed into the command tent, poked around until he found the dispatch transcripts from the original radio calls from that morning, and then stalked back out. Acting for all the world like he knew exactly where he was going.

_Which he most likely does! _John thought, following Sherlock through the chaos. Sherlock had ended up beside on of the larger craters, which to John's experienced eye wasn't much. It was about five feet wide and about six inches deep near the point of impact. He'd seen IED's in Afghanistan the size of soda cans that blew a Humvee into shrapnel, so the cops determination of "explosives" and "bombs" were a bit much. _I may not know a damn thing about disarming them, but I've seen enough of the damage they do to recognize the types. Looks like an incendiary, really._

John kept watching Sherlock, and casting an eye over his detective's expression, John knew he had time to sit and relax. Sherlock would glance down at the transcript, and then look off into a certain direction, almost as if he was reconstructing the events as the responding officer reported them. John found a short concrete wall, and luckily there was no blood where he sat. _Miracle, that. There's blood everywhere._ In fact, John saw a very disgusting river of bloody mud oozing next to Sherlock's shoe, and wondered if he should say anything. The detective was ignoring it, like he wasn't fazed by being near the mess. Of course this is the man who whipped corpses with riding crops, so probably not.

Lestrade and his people had followed from the tent, keeping back about twenty feet. Lestrade and Donovan were the closest, watching Sherlock, and then watching John watch Sherlock. John smiled to himself, figuring what was going through their heads. Donovan had most likely seen them holding hands in the car on the ride over, and Lestrade knew he'd been in Sherlock's bed when he'd called. He figured one of them would break down and ask eventually before this day was over. He wondered what he'd say, then figured he didn't have to say anything. Let them think what they wanted; he was happy, so it didn't matter.

The wind was howling through the concrete remnants of walls, funneling in to the open space where Sherlock and John were. The wind whipped at Sherlock's coat and scarf, giving the impression that the detective was wearing a black cape. _Very nice look, actually_. Sherlock was oblivious to the cold, uncaring that his coat was open, flapping away in the wind. His focus admirable, though John did start to worry the man would get sick one of these days. John had to think hard for a minute, and he realized that he had never seen Sherlock sick. High, yes, but never sick.

Lestrade walked over, and sat next to John on the wall. His coat buttoned all the way up, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He cast a glance at Sherlock before turning to the doctor. He started to say something, then changed his mind and went back to watching Sherlock. Donovan had stayed well back, for which John was thankful. He didn't trust his temper around that letdown of a police officer. She had been one of the driving forces behind getting Scotland Yard to turn its back on Sherlock two years before. And he had never forgiven her for it. Anger and disgust boiled up in him now just looking at her. Her willingness, her smug satisfaction, at being able to say "I told you he was a psychopath" to everyone who would listen made him sick with anger. Though the joke was on her - Moriarty was proven real and a villain; Sherlock exonerated and alive; and Sherlock had quite literally turned off the bomb that was going to destroy Parliament just three days ago.

_Dear God, three days ago? Or is it four? Feels like a year! I don't even feel like the same person anymore!_

It all came down to Sherlock, really. Everything revolved around him. John smiled at his thoughts, content to watch his detective as he worked. Glad that he could have this experience again. Sherlock was almost meandering now, his movements light as he stepped around unseen clues amidst the destruction that littered the ground. It was if he were searching for a scent, some piece of evidence he knew was there but couldn't pin down.

"John," began Lestrade, being very careful to not attract Sherlock's attention, "There's something here he needs to see, though I don't know how he's gonna take it."

"What is it?" John asked back just as quietly, trying to keep an eye on Sherlock as he started to wander off, dropping the transcript forgotten to the ground.

"I'll show him once he starts talking to us again - HEY! Sherlock! Where's he going?!" Lestrade yelled as the detective took off like someone fired a gun, disappearing into the ruins.

"Here we go!" John took off after Sherlock, catching up to him at a run, dodging the craters and the pools of drying blood. The others were behind John a fair amount, not as used to Sherlock's unpredictability as he was. Sherlock was heading in a distinctly northern direction, watching the ground for a trail of some kind only he could see. He had a deadly, graceful efficiency as he ran. He easily adapted his strides to the difficult terrain. John kept up with him, and he had a disturbing sense of déjà vu. He flashed back to Afghanistan, a memory of his unit scouring the bombed out remains of a village, after the blood trail of a wounded soldier trapped somewhere in the ruins.

They continued north, towards the river. The smell of the Thames reached them long before they caught sight of the water through the buildings. Great, grey rushing waters raced towards the sea, the current deep and fast beneath the wide surface of the river. Sherlock continued all the way to the edge, where he gripped the remnants of a chain link fence and leaned way out over the river. He stared down, unmoving.

"Jesus, Sherlock! That's a twenty-foot drop!" John resisted the urge to snatch him back from the ledge, not wanting to make the detective lose his grip and fall. Sherlock leaned out farther, and John winced.

"Very astute John, it's almost twenty feet exactly." Sherlock took one last look before he slung himself back to the concrete surface. "And it's also point of ingress and egress for this morning's events."

"There's fresh scrapes and disturbances in the algae growth and moss on the rocks and concrete all the way up the side of the wall. Signs that a boat anchored here as well, for several hours or more. The scrapes are indicative of a good-sized boat, enough for several people and equipment. Though not so large as to be noticed for its size. Not to mention there's absolutely no lighting along this section of the river; a boat could be here from sundown to sunrise and no one would see it. Perfect place to come in at, and to escape from. All you need to know is how to climb."

Sherlock moved in away from the ledge, pointing to the ground. His voice had that excited vibe to it; his words spilling out as fast as his mouth could form them. He was in his element. Sherlock was never more alive than when he had a puzzle to solve.

"Here, look - Disregard the fresh debris, the blood, the spent shell casings - ignore it all, and you can see it. The telltale signs of equipment being assembled, and dragged off in different directions. I can see...one, two... five, possibly six separate tread patterns." He knelt quickly, fingertips to the wet concrete, his eyes lifting to follow footprints barely visible on the ground.

"Here at the river, the destruction is minimal compared to the rest of the area. As if they did what they did here last, as an afterthought, to disguise the fact that this is how they came and went." Suddenly Sherlock leaped at John, grabbing him around the shoulders and turning him in the direction of the closest building, about fifteen feet away.

"Look, John. See the marks on the walls? The small white scuff marks, the holes at regular intervals? How it goes all the way up to the top? This building still has most of its walls, a portion of its roof." Sherlock was close behind John, his voice urgent in his ear, one hand on his shoulder, the other pointing along the wall of the building to the roof. "Look past the bullet holes, see a new pattern. Tell me what it looks like to you."

"Yeah, I see the marks..." John started, as a flash of insight bloomed in his mind. His earlier flashback to Afghanistan triggered another memory; he had been an army doctor in a war in one of the most mountainous countries in the world for three years. He drew a sharp breath in as he recognized the marks. Sherlock's hand gripped his shoulder in approval; he was several steps ahead, making sure John caught up.

"Climbing marks! Anchors, bolts, a belay system for climbing the walls!"

"Exactly! Professionals, every one of them. This was no gang incident, no university prank. This was all planned well in advance. My conclusion is that this is where the explosives and blood vessels were launched from. Highest vantage point, closest to the river. All planned, and precisely executed. In a display so grandiose that it could not be ignored, but done in place that no one would be able to stop them before they finished. All of this was a statement, a declaration. Of ability. It speaks of rage, too. They chose three of the most violent symbols of anger known to man - explosions, gunfire, and blood."

Lestrade and the others had arrived as Sherlock was expounding his conclusions, and there was more people with them than they had started out with. Sherlock's chase to the river had drawn a crowd, and over twenty people were listening and watching. Some were nodding in agreement, others looked lost and confused. Most were just enjoying the show. The legend of Sherlock Holmes had been revived, and there was no better place for those legends to grow than in Scotland Yard. John was caught up in the sheer joy of watching Sherlock work; his mind was a beauty to behold, his genius intoxicating.

"Launched? As in missiles?" Someone had the courage to ask from the crowd. "How do you launch blood in missiles?"

"Seriously not an issue I'm concerned with at the moment, I'm more curious about where their leader went while the minions did all the work." Sherlock started walking off again, though he stopped and said, "Most likely plastic containers designed to shatter at impact past a certain velocity."

He was absorbed in what he saw on the ground, ignoring the crunch of shells under his shoes, and he walked straight through the mass of people like he didn't see them. John stuck to his side like glue, and the crowd parted to let them through. Less than an hour on site, and Sherlock had more information than they'd had since before dawn.

The path only he could see wound along the outside of the property, trees bare of leaves to one side, a wasteland of concrete on the other. He was taking them in a roundabout way back to the front entrance. Everyone trailed behind, not wanting to miss a thing. Lestrade sucked in a breath, and jogged to get up next to John, pulling him a back a few steps so that Sherlock was ahead of them.

"That thing I was afraid to show him is _exactly where he's going._" Lestrade's voice was low, but not low enough. Sherlock whipped his head around, skewered the Inspector with his bright eyes, and then turned back around and began running, leaving everyone behind.

"Shit! Sherlock, Stop! John, this might get really bad." Lestrade's call only spurred the detective faster, and he rounded the wall that held the threat well ahead of the crowd, John and Lestrade struggling to keep up. Sherlock could be remarkably fast when he wanted. They came around the end of the wall, sliding to a stop to avoid running into Sherlock.

He was like a statue; exquisitely drawn from fine white marble, and looked just as cold. The wind moved around him as if it danced, making his hair slash into his eyes, his coat whipping around him like a flag. He stared ahead at the wall, unmoving, uncaring, oblivious to the men standing next to him, the crowd that gathered nearby. John felt shock at the look on Sherlock's face - it was so vacant of life, so void of personality it was if Sherlock wasn't even in his own body anymore.

John moved to Sherlock's side, and turned to see what could affect his detective so deeply. What he saw rocked him like a punch to the jaw.

_**WE WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF HIM**_

_NO! NOT possible! NO! _John didn't realize it, but he was screaming at himself inside his head. _Only a handful of people know that phrase, know who said it first...!_

One of those people was dead, three stood together before this wall, and the last was a master at keeping secrets. So no one else could know that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock with a variant of those words, the words written in blood before them. John felt like he was back at that pool all over again, strapped down with explosives and waiting to die, taking his best friend with him.

"_**I will burn the heart out of you!" **_Moriarty's ghost screamed at him, threatening to pull him back into a nightmare.

Nothing could be heard but the howling of the wind, the trees complaining in the cold. John was filled by a churning mix of anger and panic, and he swallowed back his fear as he turned to Sherlock. He was still immobile, his bright eyes shining like diamonds in the shifting light.

"Sherlock. Moriarty's dead. He's dead." Having meant it to sound reassuring, it came out as more of a questioning plea. "Sherlock? Hey, mate. Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer, didn't even register that John was speaking to him. It was if he couldn't answer, no mind left to respond. John was close enough to him that he could hear Sherlock's mobile begin vibrating in his coat pocket. He didn't move, unaware it was even ringing. It buzzed like an angry bee hive in his pocket before abruptly dying off. The state his lover was in was beginning to alarm him. He was at a loss for what to do, unsure if he was in shock, or if he had stepped away into his mind palace. Lestrade moved towards Sherlock, had outstretched, a look of concern on his face. John stopped him, and gently pushed him back. He was afraid to touch Sherlock while he was in this state, he didn't know how he would react to physical contact. John jumped as his own mobile began chiming loudly from his pocket. Digging it out, he saw it was a restricted number, and he answered.

"Put him on the phone, John." It was Mycroft, of course it was.

"I would, but he isn't really... _here_... right now." John swallowed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. "I can't tell if he is in severe shock or if he is so deep in his mind palace he can't hear us. I'm afraid he might be... gone."

Nothing from Mycroft's end, then a loud sigh of exasperation he didn't bother trying to hide. Definitely brothers, the Holmes men.

"Break him free, John. He'll hear you." A pause, then, "Make him call me once he is able." The line went dead. John put his mobile back in his pocket, and took a deep breath. _Break him free? How the hell...?_

John moved cautiously in front of Sherlock, standing inches away from him. He knew it was dangerous to wake people forcibly from deep mental shocks and fugue states. Many people when awakened prematurely from trances, illness, hypnosis, often emerged instinctively violent. The potential for Sherlock to hurt himself or someone else was there. _Sherlock would never hurt me. Not badly, at least. Punches don't count. Stop stalling, do something. _Sherlock's gaze was locked on the wall, his gorgeous eyes vacant.

"Sherlock? Come back now. Sherlock." He strived to keep his voice calm, soothing. No response. John swallowed, and became acutely aware that people were staring, wondering what was going on. Many had drifted closer, stopping just behind Lestrade and Donovan. They were whispering together, and John caught something from them about calling for 'medics. That stirred John to action; no one was messing with Sherlock. John would bring him back to himself. He wouldn't let his trepidation stop him.

John stepped those last few inches, so close he could embrace his detective. Instead he lifted his right hand, and laid it gently over Sherlock's heart. It still beat beneath his hand, the only sign of life from the man.

"Sherlock. I love you."

Sometimes simplicity works best. His voice had been soft but clear, and it was as if the heavens had decided to assist, the wind dying off just as he said the words. They traveled far enough for everyone present to hear them, in perfect clarity. The whispering stopped, and he knew he had everyone's attention. John ignored them all, and tried to wake Sherlock with sheer willpower.

It was small spark, a tiny flutter under his fingers. John knew some part of Sherlock had heard his simple declaration of love. He saw a change in Sherlock's eyes, as if a summer sun had broken through winter clouds, awareness glowing in the depths. A subtle change, but powerful. Relief swept through him as Sherlock blinked, his eyes lowering to John's. He moved for the first time in an eternity, his arms drifted up, as if lifted by the returning wind. His gloved hands braced themselves on either side of John's face, and he dropped his forehead to John's. His skin was cold, as if he really was a man of stone.

"I... went looking for what I must have... missed." Sherlock whispered, his voice full of something John couldn't name. "Two years hunting, tearing apart Moriarty's syndicate... Only someone who knew him well could have known those words." His voice regained some of its old strength, but he spoke quietly, his voice only for John's ears. "I missed something, and now, you're in danger." Sherlock's eyes drifted shut, and he whispered his next words across John's mouth.

"The only heart I have to burn belongs to you. They hurt you, John - I am destroyed."

Those words cut him like a knife, and made his blood sing with the beautiful pain of them. John didn't care that they had an audience, that people were staring, or drifting closer to get a better view. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest inside his coat, and whispered back, "No one can hurt us while we're together." He brought his lips to Sherlock's, kissing him like they were alone in the world, and that there was nothing to fear. Lips clinging, he poured every ounce of emotion he could into that one kiss. His heart roared in triumph as Sherlock kissed him back. John gave up all inhibitions, his arms holding Sherlock tight. The detective returned his kiss with equal fervor.

It wasn't until Sherlock's mobile began vibrating again that they realized they were still out in the real world, and couldn't stay like that forever. Sherlock lifted his mouth away, and cursed. He kept John close to his chest with his right arm, kissed him once on the forehead as if apologizing, and blindly answered his mobile with the other.

"Hello, brother dear... yes, obviously... John is an excellent physician, he knew just what to do..." John choked back a laugh at that, burying his face in Sherlock's scarf. "I'll be giving this matter my full attention, it's already almost solved as it is...of course you'll be following along... feel free if you're bored... bye-bye now."

Sherlock promptly hung up, and dropped his mobile back in his pocket. His arm came back up to wrap around John's shoulder, and he rested his chin on John's temple.

"Sorry... about stepping away like that. I went too deep, too fast, trying to find my mistake. I relived two years in those few minutes, and I was determined to find it. I got caught up. I heard you though. I think I'll always hear you." His voice was low, for John only. Sherlock rarely apologized, but when he did, he meant it.

John's reply was muffled by Sherlock's scarf, but it was clear enough. "No worries, just glad you heard me."

"Hmmm. I think I'll always hear those words from you. Oh, and did you know that about thirty people are staring at us, some of them taking pictures? I'm certain at least a dozen or so are filming us as well." Sherlock sounded like he thought the whole idea of people filming them was absurd, and John groaned.

"Why do you think I'm hiding in your scarf?" John gave up, and started to laugh, shoulders shaking in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock started to laugh as well, deep and glorious as it echoed off the concrete walls around them. They pulled away, grinning at each other like fools and dissolving in giggles.

"Crime scene, stop giggling!" John mock whispered, which just set them both off into more giggle fits. John had to wipe tears from his cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't stop laughing every time he looked at John. People were still filming, and John resisted the urge to start waving. Sherlock didn't care a bit that they were being watched, and reached a hand out to wipe away a lone tear John missed. They calmed down enough after a few minutes of hilarity, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"Lestrade, pick your jaw off the ground, I'm perfectly fine now. Back to work." Sherlock winked at the Inspector, threw his arm around John's shoulders, and walked to the wall, and the challenge it presented.


	17. Chapter 17 Hell Hath No Fury

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. This chapter has violence. Enjoy, and don't worry, the boys will be back!**

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**Chapter Seventeen**

**"Hell Hath No Fury"**

Mary walked down the dark, poorly lit street, confidence in every stride. Most women would hesitate to be out alone this late at night, especially in this part of town. Mary wasn't concerned, the weight of the gun on her hip a familiar presence. She had traded in her brilliant red coat for her dark leathers from her distant life, form-fitting and warm enough to cut back the worst of the wind. Rain fell sporadically, landing on her hair and face. She didn't mind, each cold drop was like a punishment she felt she deserved. She had fooled herself into thinking she could be someone new, someone worthy of obtaining happiness.

Mary knew she was being watched. The eyes she had felt tracing her movements had stayed back far enough for her to know that whoever they were, they were her tail, and not tasked with attacking at the moment. They made no overt moves, merely maintaining the same distance for the last few hours as she went around town, looking for a flat. She had seen the observers switch with new partners several times, attempting to keep her from becoming aware of her tail. She hadn't felt up to playing games though, and had made deliberate eye contact with the newest tail before heading out to the next flat for rent. He had looked surprised, eyes showing clearly that he hadn't thought her skilled enough to realize they were there. As initially scintillating as it may have been, to mess with the people who thought her an easy target, she was growing weary of the game. That's why she had chosen this long street; few residences, mostly closed businesses, and a small park. She knew every inch of it. If they were to come for her here, she would have an advantage. Mary would not die without a fight, and she intended put down as many of them as she could manage. Which would be a lot.

She didn't need her gun to kill. It may have been years since she had taken a life, but she had kept her skills sharp. No matter how careful she had been in establishing this identity, she knew that nothing was perfect, and that her enemies would one day come for her. Mary pretended to have a destination in mind; how she moved, where she looked, how long she paused before moving on would all telegraph her intentions to her followers unless she was careful. They had underestimated her earlier, she would not make the same mistake.

The metal pipe sticking out of that waste barrel, the sharp edges of that picket fence, the uneven pavement on the sidewalk just ahead; all are tools to be used in a fight to the death. Full awareness of your environment will save you every time. Mary could almost hear the long ago voices of her instructors, back when she had first been recruited. The CIA had a sense of humor, and for a long time went out looking for the prettiest, daintiest blondes they could find to make into killers. Very few of those pretty blondes were still alive. She was alive because she was something they couldn't teach: she was a natural-born killer. It wasn't hard for her to take a life, it was hard for her not too. Control was what she prized most. It kept her free. And helped her choose how she was to die.

Mary heard it coming from behind. They were closing fast, two from behind her on the sidewalk, the third ahead and to her left from the recessed doorway of a shop. Their paces were syncing with hers, and Mary struggled not to let on that she knew they were making their move. She could hear the low growl of a high-powered car approaching from behind up the street on her right, and it would come along side her at the same time her three pursuers converged. Unless she moved- _NOW!_

Mary dug deep, and sprinted out from the safety of the sidewalk into the street. She heard curses behind her, and saw a shadow detach itself from the front of the building just ahead to her left. She dodged under the outstretched hand that reached for her, never losing speed. She ran straight for the vehicle, and slid smoothly across the hood as it squealed to a sharp stop. She flew off it in a dead run, heading back at a diagonal towards the far side of the street, going opposite of the way they'd expect her to go. When people run from something, they instinctively run forward, and even the person doing the chasing will subconsciously be expecting that behavior. She capitalized on it, and ran the small park between two large buildings. The trees and unlit spaces would let her whittle down her pursuers and potentially make her escape.

She disappeared in to the black shadows under a large pine tree mere feet ahead of her closest pursuer. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she ran full-out for the tree trunk ahead of her. He was steps behind, and she had an image of his hand reaching out to grab her shoulder, her closeness distracting him from where she was leading him. Mary leapt at the tree trunk, and ran rapidly up the hard surface, pushing off and flipping in the air over his head. She kicked out as she flipped, her foot connecting solidly between his shoulder blades. His head hit the tree with a sickening crunch as Mary landed on her feet in a crouch. She didn't pause, two more pursuers were just about to enter the shadows under the tree. She took off again, not even bothering to spare the corpse at the base of the tree a glance. Deeper she ran into the small park, lightly jumping over rocks and fallen branches. She could smell water just ahead, and could feel a change in air pressure signaling a break in the trees. She knew this park well, having walked here many times before. Up ahead was a small stream, with a minor waterfall under a stone bridge in the center of the clearing. The drop from the bridge to the water below was about ten feet, and the stream meandered back into the trees another fifteen feet beyond that. The area around that drop off was well manicured and relatively flat, no obstacles.

They were so close, too close to pull their weapons and fire without giving her a chance to change direction and gain more ground. They would try to tackle her in the open space, counting on the fact that they could probably outrun her in a foot race. She dug deeper, pulled more air into her lungs, dropped her center of gravity and _ran hard_ for the stone bridge the second she broke cover.

They were hard on her heels, and she kept her angle unchanged until she was a foot from the stone bridge. She let them assume she was trying to go over the bridge, not _off the side._ Mary leapt up on to the wall and threw herself into the darkness below, trusting that some gardener hadn't redecorated the landscape since the last time she'd been there. The air felt cool as she seemed to be hanging in suspended time, the place she leapt so dark she couldn't even see the ground. She knew how fast she was going, and how high she had leapt from the bridge; instinct took over, and she made a hard landing on the grass beside the stream, rolling to soften her impact. She didn't stop, running along the stream to the border of the trees.

Mary heard cursing above her as the two men chasing her came up hard against the stone wall of the bridge, and they didn't follow. Mary ran that last distance to the tree cover just as she felt more than heard the bullets race by her head. They were firing blind, the darkness too absolute from their position to see her. They knew what direction she had gone, and seemed determined to empty their guns. Just as she passed into the trees, Mary fell to her knees in the loose gravel of the stream bed, sliding forward like she used to playing softball as a child. She spun around, using her momentum to end up facing back toward her pursuers. Mary pulled her gun, her arm rising up in one smooth motion. She could clearly see where they were on the bridge, the muzzles flashes as they continued to fire over her head was enough to illuminate them in the darkness.

Two shots. That's all she took. All she needed. Empty, harsh silence greeted Mary's ears as she knelt in the wet gravel, her lungs sucking in air, her arm steady and sure as she held the gun up and ready. There was no one else crashing through the trees, no one else charging into the clearing. Nothing. The men were dead, dropped to the stone surface of the bridge, blood and brain running from their ruined skulls. Mary lowered her gun, and exhaled that last breath she'd held as she pulled the trigger.

She sensed it, the presence just out of arm's reach to her side. There was no warning, no hint that she wasn't alone. That she had failed. Mary closed her eyes, and smiled. The click of a hammer being cocked cracked loud in the overwhelming silence, and a soundless roar built up in her ears. _Three put down, better than most could do. End me then. Let it be by a worthy opponent. _Mary's killer leveled the barrel of the gun at her temple, and spoke.

"Hello, Mary. Let's talk."

Mary's eyes flew open, for she heard the voice of Death.


	18. Chapter 18 Mycroft, and Coming Out

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he certainly owns my heart! Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated, and may I suggest you pay extra special attention to the background info, there's a hint in here about Mary's fate! And for all the followers and reviewers who have taken the time to read my work, Thank you.**

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**Chapter Eighteen**

"_**Mycroft, and Coming Out"**_

John was exhausted. So tired he couldn't focus his eyes. He was awake enough to remember that sleeping at the desk in the front room wasn't the most brilliant of ideas. Sherlock was still in his chair, fingers under his chin. Squinting at his watch, John thought that it was either extremely late at night or depressingly early in the morning.

_That's it, I'm going to bed. He hasn't said anything in about two hours anyway_. John struggled to his feet, one arm braced on the desk until he found his balance. "Sherlock, I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning before I leave for work."

Sherlock didn't even respond, so absorbed in his mind palace that he probably didn't even register that John was speaking to him. This trance of his was different than the one he'd been in this morning (or was it yesterday?). His hands would occasionally move, as if shifting images around in front of his eyes. And thankfully he was blinking too. John watched him for a few more minutes, appreciating that Sherlock was back to normal. The scare he'd given everyone still made John nervous. Afterwards, Sherlock had been acting extraordinarily normal. Normal for him.

Sherlock had scoured the grounds, determined to find everything he could. John had eventually put his foot down just after lunch. Sherlock was covered in blood, dirt, and smelled of smoke. John hadn't had anything to eat since the evening before. John had gotten a tiny glimmer of satisfaction when Lestrade had sent Donovan out for food. He still checked the food to make sure she hadn't done anything to it. Getting Sherlock to eat when he was working was impossible. Unless you just handed him something to eat while he wasn't paying attention, and he'd just start munching away. John had winced at Sherlock eating his sandwich with hands that had been picking up bloody shell casings all morning, but the man was eating so he shrugged it off.

The sun had been down for hours when Sherlock had paused his mad hunt for evidence, clearly tired, but unwilling to stop. It had taken John to point out that he was too tired to keep going that kept Sherlock from continuing. To everyone's surprise, Sherlock had looked at John, and agreed. Even more surprising was that he hadn't declared he was going to Bart's with the evidence. That had struck John as odd; why wouldn't he go? There had been hundreds of samples and baggies of evidence boxed up and shipped out to the pathology lab at St Bart's. He usually had to be reminded not to open them until after the police had logged them in, the techs needing to smack his fingers.

John hadn't questioned it beyond asking Sherlock if he was sure, that he wouldn't mind going home alone. The second they were through the door, Sherlock had showered, thrown on his oldest night-clothes and robe, and ensconced himself in his chair. John had deliberately not joined him; he'd taken his shower afterwards. Sherlock's hesitancy in the shower that morning had been very clear. John had expected it to some degree, and he hadn't wanted Sherlock to think he was hounding him for anything he wasn't ready for. For all that Sherlock was highly aware of the mechanics of sex, and his willingness to pleasure John, he had obviously didn't know how to handle anything past kissing when it came to himself. Sherlock Holmes was a virgin, to be very blunt. John hadn't much experience with virgins; he had gleefully gotten rid of his virginity in his teen years.

John laughed silently at himself as he walked down to the bedroom. _Look at me acting like I'm the experienced one! I have no more experience being in a sexual relationship with a man than Sherlock has with anyone! We're both virgins this time around. Guess the only difference is I know what I like, and that it's ok to feel it._ John didn't even bother with the light, just peeled off his clothes, tossed them at the hamper, and hopped under the covers. John knew what he shouldn't do; the rest would come with time. Patience and understanding was always the best way to go.

* * *

Sherlock came back from his mind palace as John went bed. His foray this time was more directed, he knew what he needed to find. He knew where he ought to be looking. That day at the chemical facility had been arduous, though he refused to acknowledge it. The threat on the wall, the fires, bullets and blood had all been signs of who was responsible, and why. It was seeing past the chaos to the separate clues that had given him the last piece. The threat wasn't directly for him, it was against the ones he loved. Sherlock was certain that these new enemies would not come at him directly, but sideways through the people in his life. Through John.

_I missed one of Moriarty's disciples. Someone he held close in his confidence, someone who had an emotional attachment to him, or vice versa. It's in the wording of the threat, the violent acts. I just don't know who yet. I need a name. It's revenge. Otherwise these people would've stayed hidden, under the radar. None of it makes sense otherwise._

Sherlock heard the deep purr of the Jaguar as it slowed to a stop outside his flat. A single door opened and shut, and a moment later his brother let himself into the building. Sherlock contemplated heading to bed just then to spite his brother, but he needed to talk to him anyway, so he waited. Sherlock turned to the fire burning in the hearth, wondering what topic Mycroft would bring up first. The doctor, or the disciple.

Mycroft paused in the door, taking off his coat, gloves. He eyed the still form of his little brother, neither of them speaking. Sherlock didn't even cast a glance his way until he sat opposite him in John's chair. Sherlock waited, knowing that his refusal to speak first would make Mycroft come to the point all the quicker. He'd be more of a pain, but it would be over faster. Minutes passed, and Sherlock suppressed a grin as Mycroft finally sighed in annoyance and spoke.

"Did you have fun, gallivanting about the river with your friends? With your Dr. Watson?" So it was to be John first then. Sherlock's involvement with the good doctor must be troubling Mycroft indeed.

"Hhhhmmm yes, 'gallivanting' is exactly what I was doing. Rather fun actually. You should have come, made a picnic out of it. Don't mind the blood, we have biscuits!" Sherlock replied, keeping his voice low, but the sarcasm high.

"Sherlock." His brother's tone was ominous, but Sherlock wasn't fazed.

"Mycroft." Sherlock looked his brother in the eye, and didn't look away. Mycroft's mouth turned down into a grimace, and he was obviously uncomfortable.

Sherlock raised a brow at his brother, and waited. Mycroft's face clearly said he had a lot to say, but didn't want to say it at all. He even started to fidget, his fingers picking at a tiny tear on the arm of the chair. Sherlock was in no mood to hear any lectures from Mycroft about his relationship with John. He had spent two years of his life away from the person he needed most in this world. He now found himself in an impossible reality where that someone loved him. Truly loved him for who he was. Not because he was their child, or a dream of love, or sibling to be tolerated. He found it to be the most precious thing he had ever experienced. And he would die all over again to protect it. Protect John.

"Mycroft. My relationship with John is none of your business. Save the lectures, the warnings, the doubts. You'll make us both happy if you do." Sherlock told his brother, looking him in the eye, gaze unwavering. Mycroft's demeanor settled, and he sighed deeply.

"This is most unusual, Sherlock. Surely you can see why it worries me." Mycroft's voice had changed, quiet in the peaceful silence of the flat.

"Tell me then." Sherlock made it a challenge, and wondered if Mycroft would take him up on it.

"I don't know what to say, truthfully." Mycroft paused, and looked away from Sherlock, to the fire. "I never expected this sort of thing to happen."

"Why warn me against emotional involvement if you never expected me to get involved?" Sherlock almost didn't ask, but he needed to understand. He was having trouble understanding this new relationship himself, as he had never expected it either.

"You frighten me, Sherlock." Mycroft's answer was quietly spoken, as if he didn't want to say it at all. Sherlock had no words, as he had ever heard such a thing from his brother before.

"If you were to lose someone you loved, who loved you back, I'm afraid of what would happen. Your control is sporadic, little brother. There are moments when I see the edge of insanity that accompanies genius. The danger that I fear is what would happen if you were to give your heart, and then have it broken. I thought my fears to be irrational, because you never showed an interest in anyone really. That Adler woman doesn't count, as she was more adversary than lover. The game with her was the attraction of talent and intellect. John is different. He has achieved the impossible. He has gotten you to let him into your heart."

Sherlock had never heard such sentiment from Mycroft before. He felt a flash of unease, for Mycroft's worry too closely paralleled his own. That without John anchoring him, Sherlock would become a monster like Moriarty.

"So you see no happy ending; I'm condemned to be either alone or a monster driven mad by heart-break?" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

"Will you even have a heart once this is over? Better it would have been if John hadn't wakened it in you. He will be your downfall, Sherlock."

Mycroft paused, weighing his next words. His voice went cold, dangerous.

"Just be careful, brother mine. Madness runs in the family, remember. I will not hesitate to intervene again." Mycroft shifted in his seat, and gave him that sarcastic smile that was never too far from his lips. "Now, on to more pressing matters. Obviously there is a disciple out there that wasn't dealt with?"

"So it seems. I've spent a majority of my time thinking about it today. The only thing I can think of is that I failed to find all of them. I need to see my files." Sherlock told his brother. He ignored the implied threat from Mycroft, and turned off his worries to concentrate on the problem.

"Tomorrow afternoon. My place. I'll send the car," Mycroft stood to go, putting on his coat, picking up his umbrella.

"John as well, Mycroft." Sherlock added.

"Oh yes let's put everyone on the classified access lists! Fine, just let me know when. Try not to get in any more trouble before then, little brother." And so Mycroft left, slipping down the stairs and out the front door. The Jaguar purred to life and stalked out onto the streets of Westminster.

Sherlock turned back to the fire, wishing he could find some warmth from the flames. He didn't like the sensation he was feeling. His failure to stop all Moriarty's disciples could cost John his life. He felt doubt. Doubt and fear.

"Sherlock." John was standing in the door to the kitchen, wearing one of Sherlock's robes.

"John, I thought you went to bed?" Sherlock stood, walking towards his doctor.

"Hard to sleep when your boyfriend and his brother are talking in a small flat with no doors shut." Sherlock couldn't tell if John was upset, he sounded annoyed for some reason.

"Sorry, I thought we were quieter, I didn't mean to wake you." Sherlock was unsure of how he should act. His conversation with Mycroft had unsettled him. He just looked at John, and he had a sudden urge to reach out, to hold him. So he did.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, and rested his head on the other man's shoulder. Sherlock felt better the instant he did, the cold fading away. John returned the embrace, lightly at first, and then when he felt Sherlock sigh and relax into him further, he tightened his hold.

"You won't lose me, Sherlock. Anyone who thinks I'm an easy target will be sorely surprised. I won't let you become the monster that you and your brother seem to think you're capable of being. I won't let you." John said fervently. "And Mycroft is a rubbish big brother, by the way."

"You heard?" Sherlock didn't know whether he was embarrassed or not.

"I heard everything." John hugged his detective tightly, and kissed his neck. Sherlock shivered in response, and John kissed that spot again.

* * *

Sherlock was still sleeping when John's alarm went off. John had been awake for a while, just lying in bed, and holding Sherlock. He silenced the alarm, and carefully got up. Sherlock had been in a mood the night before, after Mycroft left. He hadn't gone back to his chair after John had found him in the living room. He'd come to bed, without a word, and wrapped himself around John. So John had just held him, both of them saying nothing, until the younger Holmes fell asleep. John's anger at Mycroft had just gotten more fuel for the fire. The elder Holmes had been outright damning of Sherlock's attachment to John, even going so far to threaten him with some reprisal if the relationship went badly.

_What the hell did he mean by intervening again? Madness runs in the family? He ever thinks about meddling with Sherlock, he won't have time to worry about a disciple, he'll be worrying about me._

John got ready for work, being careful not to wake the sleeping detective. Sherlock usually never slept during a case. But then he never had anyone to sleep with before either.

_Today is gonna be difficult. Mary will be there. Well, she might be. Somehow I don't see her working with me anymore, not after this week. I wouldn't blame her one bit if she left. Hell, she might even come to work just to make me pay for how I treated her. Should I even be going to work? What about Sherlock?_

John dressed, grabbed his work bag from the corner, and paused at the bedroom door. He looked at Sherlock, still sleeping with his face buried where John had laid. John made up his mind, and went back to the dresser, and pulled out his gun. It was still loaded from the day before. He grabbed an extra clip, and secured them both in the holster he so rarely used. He tucked the holster into the waistband at the small of his back, glad he was wearing a belt. His jacket easily concealed it all.

_I am no one's easy target. I won't let anyone hurt Sherlock. They come for me, they'll have a nasty surprise. Today is my slow day, I'll pop in, cancel the rest of my week, see what the situation is with Mary, and then come home. I've got plenty of vacation days built up._

John took one last look at the sleeping Sherlock, wishing he could stay. Responsibilities calling him out the door, John left, Sherlock not having stirred once.

The trip to the office was uneventful, John keeping an eye out the cab windows the entire way. A part of him felt silly, but he knew from experience that not being ready for danger was the fastest way to die. And dealing with someone who was close enough to Moriarty for the Holmes' brothers to call a disciple? Better to think them very dangerous indeed.

John got in well before his first appointment, and went to his office. The outer nurse's station was dark. There was no sign of Mary, and John felt equally relieved and saddened by that. He dropped off his bag, and went down the hall to the clinic's main reception office shared by all the resident doctors. The secretary was in, and the nasty look she didn't bother trying to hide made it clear that the news of his split with Mary had spread already. The television was on in the corner of the room, on mute, cycling through the morning news.

"Mary quit. Left a message this weekend on the answering service." He hadn't even the chance to ask, and the scorn dripping from the woman's voice was caustic.

He wouldn't even try defending himself. He had treated Mary badly, and he had nothing to say that wouldn't come across as insensitive. So he just nodded, and ignored her attitude.

"Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the week, and I'm assuming you already canceled them for today since Mary left." He stated, and she nodded, mouth tight. "I'll be taking a week's worth of leave then, I'll be back next Monday. Have a wonderful day." She nodded once more, and went tapping away at her keyboard, ignoring him like he didn't exist.

John turned to leave, but paused as his eyes noticed something on the television screen. There was no sound, but the image was fairly self-explanatory. It was a video of Sherlock and John kissing in full view of Scotland Yard, obviously taken by one of the people at the crime scene yesterday. It looked like a kiss straight from a movie, all impressive shot angles and melodramatic scenery. And from the time of morning, it had obviously been in the news cycle several times already. They just kept playing it on repeat while presumably an anchor was chatting about it that he couldn't hear. Seeing the kiss from the outside was a weird experience, and he found himself getting red in the face at the sheer amount of passion rolling off the screen.

_Oh wow. That's equally embarrassing and incredibly hot. Coming out on national television._

Tearing his eyes away from the image of him and Sherlock lip locked, John saw the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. There was a brief line about a shootout at a local park in one of the rundown parts of town, multiple casualties, before the ticker started listing all the cases Sherlock had helped the MPS with over the years. John looked back at the picture of them kissing, and shook his head in rueful amusement before leaving the reception area. He heard the secretary gasp loudly as she saw the television screen once he left.


	19. Chapter 19 Molly, Lady M, and the Morgue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me! Please enjoy, and patience shall be rewarded! This chapter was hard to write, it hit a little close to home. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

"_**Molly, Lady M, and the Morgue"**_

Sherlock walked into the pathology lab at St Bart's, looking for his favorite lab partner. The evidence sent over from the crime scene yesterday were stacked in boxes along the far wall, littering the tops of some of the tables.

Molly was attempting to organize the mess, trying to find places for boxes that didn't obscure equipment. Her long hair pulled back into a low tail at the back of her head, and her lab coat was a large one today, almost down to her ankles. The engagement ring still graced her left hand, winking in the sun from the big windows. Sherlock let the door swing shut behind him, and just watched her. Molly didn't know he was there, as her attention focused on the television that was on in the side office. She kept putting the same box down on the floor before picking it up again. She did this a few times before Sherlock wondered what in the world could be so interesting on the television. He walked up next to her, and bent over a little to see past the door jamb. He rolled his eyes, and sighed.

"Do they really have nothing better to report on the news that a man kissing another warrants its own segment?" Sherlock asked, leaning back on his heels and looking at Molly.

Molly shrieked, and dropped the box on the floor. The rattle of shell casings was clear through the sides of the box.

"Sherlock! When – when did you get here?" She spun around, her hand at her throat, face going red.

"Just now." Sherlock bent over, picked up the box, and spilled the contents across the tabletop. It was just the shell casings, and not what he wanted to see first. "Where's the samples from the explosives?"

"Over here, um, lemme get them." Molly lightly ran around the end of the table, and scooted out a box from the middle of the stacks. Sherlock tossed the box into the corner, and nudged the baggies containing the shells out-of-the-way. Molly came back with the box, and he took that one and spilled it out as well. The smell of burnt air emanated from the tubes, and Molly crinkled her nose at the stench. Sherlock tossed away the other box, and snatched up a handful of tubes.

He shucked off his coat while switching the tubes from hand to hand, and hardly noticed when Molly took it from him and hung it up next to hers. She followed him right along to his favorite microscope, and sat right next to him as he turned it on. The screens for the camera lit up as well, and he turned on the outside network connection from the computer terminal attached to the system. Molly was fascinated when he pulled up a login screen for a network she had never seen before. She got a brief flash of something she would've sworn said MI-something before he typed his password lightning fast and he was in.

"You just connected this to something in the government's databases, didn't you?" Molly asked, voice hushed like she was afraid someone would overhear. Sherlock gave her that little sideways glance that always made her brain sputter, and said all innocently, "I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

She just sat there and watched him work, having none of her own to occupy her time for some reason. Her morning had been cleared, and she wasn't expecting some cadavers for a few more hours, as they were still being processed at the crime scene. Donovan had said it was a shootout at a local park. She always enjoyed watching Sherlock work, even when he was being particularly annoying. It wasn't because she'd been in love with him for ages either. She liked watching Sherlock work because he was all economy and efficiency. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. Over the years working with him, Molly had found her own skills improving, just by picking up his little habits.

"You cleared my morning for me, didn't you?" She asked after a few minutes, watching as he prepared another slide. He had gone through half a dozen tubes, prepping the slides before he even started looking at them. She took the tubes from him one at a time as he finished, sealing them and putting them aside. He didn't even have to look up for a new slide before she was putting it in his hands. It was the practice of long years in the same lab, and she fell right back into the comfortable habit without even realizing it. Most people would have thought her attitude demeaning, but Molly was never more comfortable when in her lab, doing her work. Her nervous smile settled into a real one, her confidence came out, and she was quick with answers to questions. It was only when other people encroached on her territory that Molly lost her confidence. And Sherlock always valued her work, even if he had never shown it before. The trip out last week helping him solve cases had been a fantastic day, as she got to see how he worked outside of Bart's. When Sherlock came out of his own head space to be kind, he did it well.

"I did, yes. This is too important for me not to have quality help." Sherlock slid the first slide under the scope, and he adjusted the zoom until the image came up on the screen clearly. He stared at it, making notations in his pocket notebook. He pulled that slide out, and another took its place. Again he took more notes, and reached for the next slide.

"You ever going to tell me how you do that?" Molly queried, handing him a slide that was just out of reach.

"Nope." Molly laughed, and Sherlock cast her that sideways look again. It was rare indeed to hear Molly Hooper laugh, and Sherlock squirreled away the sound into his mind palace.

They spent the next hour in companionable silence, Molly assisting Sherlock without asking. Sometimes he would get up, and wave her in to look into the scope herself. Not that she had much experience at all with this sort of evidence analysis, but he would ask her what she saw, and then either scribble away at his notebook, or scoot her out of the chair and take over. Molly didn't mind, it was more interesting than cutting up dead gangbangers downstairs. She even prepped vials of samples from the evidence tubes, for use in the mass spectrometer. She figured he would want a full workup of the evidence. He nodded in approval as she started the process, and bent back to his slides.

Sherlock had saved up all the screenshots of the slides, and he opened up a file and rapidly included his notes. He reached out, grabbed the spectrometer readouts, and typed in those results as well. Molly watched in fascination as he sealed it all into a password protected data packet, and emailed the whole thing to someone with a government address. She pretended not to see, and he pretended that she hadn't. Molly figured it was Mycroft. Only made sense.

"What did you figure out? I saw your face there at the end, you had an 'a-hah!' moment." Molly was curious, having contained herself as long as she could.

"Triethylaluminium." Sherlock said, getting up and reaching for the next box of evidence, digging through it. "A type of organometallic compound. It's a pyrophoric material. Used in incendiaries. I sent my results to see if there is a corresponding formula in the databases that can be traced. Lots of arms manufacturers have to list their formulas with government agencies around the world for antiterrorism purposes. Particularly in the United States and the United Kingdom. "

Sherlock found the blood samples, and brought them over to the scope. Molly had already cleared away the explosives evidence, putting them in one of the empty boxes.

She handed Sherlock a new pair of gloves, and took the old. Tossing them away, she saw the television was back to broadcasting the kiss that had so absorbed her that morning. She hadn't been surprised, as she had known as soon as Mrs Hudson had when John broke it off with Mary. Mrs Hudson had called as soon as she had settled in for the night, excitedly jabbering away. Molly had been thunderstruck, as she had never expected anything close to this from John. He had always been so steadfastly straight. She had never gotten a vibe from Sherlock that he was interested in men, but she had never gotten a vibe that said he liked women either. Ever. But his attachment to John Watson had been obvious, and Molly had always believed that love could do anything. If love could make John Watson fall for a man, and if love could make Sherlock Holmes be in a relationship with anyone, who was she to judge? Her heart was a bit tender, but all she had to do was twist her engagement ring around her finger to feel better. The next day, she had gotten an equally excited text from Lestrade, full of CAPS and exclamation marks. He had called Sherlock, and John was in bed with him. That was a little harder to fathom, but then twitter and Facebook blew up a few hours later, with posts and pics of Sherlock kissing John at the crime scene. Or was John kissing Sherlock? It was hard to tell, and she leaned a little more to see the television better.

Sherlock sighed loudly, having seen where her attention had wandered. Molly stopped leaning, and looked at Sherlock, a blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks.

He just went back to the work, and Molly sneaked another peek at the television.

* * *

John left his office, bag over his shoulder. He had typed up his unresolved notes from the previous week, tidied, and locked everything up. He pulled out his mobile, and began typing.

**I'm done at work. Took the week off. Where are you? -JW**

Not even a minute passed before he got a reply. It wasn't typical for Sherlock to reply so fast, but things hadn't been typical for a while.

**Lab at Bart's. Coming here? -SH **

** On my way. Don't worry, I've got my gun. -JW**

Nothing for a moment, then he got a reply.

**Very practical, my dear doctor. Do hurry. –SH**

John grinned, and pocketed his mobile. Walking out of the clinic, he went to the corner and waited for a taxi to come by. The sun was out, but the air had a nasty chill to it, and he hunched his shoulders against its bite. Then something across the street caught his eye, and he stood up straight in surprise.

_Mary? Is that…? _There was a woman standing across the street, her back to him as she talked on her mobile. She had a hat on, the same color as Mary's, and the same kind of scarf. He tensed up, wondering if it was her, and what he should do if it was. John relaxed, and realized it wasn't. Mary had short, bright blonde hair, this woman had long red brown hair peeking out from under her hat and over the collar of her long black coat. It was the way she was standing that had triggered his flash of recognition. Same way of holding herself, the set to the shoulders. The hat and scarf must be popular.

John scolded himself for being silly, and flagged a taxi coming down the street. He hopped in once it stopped, and gave the address to St Bart's. He took one last look at the woman on the corner, for some reason still disturbed by her presence. He was at the wrong angle to see her face, and he lost sight of her as the cab pulled away.

* * *

The woman on the street corner hung up the phone, and tucked it away. She watched the cab carrying John Watson as it left, presumably heading to St Bart's where she knew Sherlock Holmes to be. She pulled the hat and scarf away, and let the cold wind lift her hair.

_How sweet, he's off to join his lover. Hope they treasure this time together, it won't be for much longer. Soon it'll be all over, for them and for me. _

She walked down the street, to where her people waited. The black town car hugged the curb, giving off a subtle predatory vibe. The two men standing in black suits next to the vehicle probably didn't lend it much of an innocent look, but she wasn't worried. John Watson's observational skills weren't to the same caliber as his partner's, so she needn't worry that he'd notice the car, or remember it. She had wanted to see him close up, her curiosity too strong. It had always been her one failing, being too curious. Got her into lots of trouble. But that was ok, she adored trouble. It was part of the reason why she wore the hat and scarf. Just to see if he would notice. To her delight, it appeared he had noticed them, and he kept trying to see her face. It was a good thing he had finally decided she wasn't Mary, else she might have had to move her timetable up. Couldn't rush revenge, otherwise what do you have to look forward too once it was over?

She had wanted to see him, the man who made the great Sherlock Holmes open up. Pictures never really did a person justice, and she'd had enough of the flat surveillance pictures. Though the video of the two men kissing at the scene of her midnight party had been delightful. She figured they had appreciated her artwork, and her little love note. So much blood, so many people to threaten. From the descriptions of people's' reactions to her message, she knew she had gotten her point across.

The man closest opened the rear door without a word, and she slid into the lush interior. The door shut behind her, closing out the sounds of the outside world. Her henchmen got in, and she nodded for them to drive away from the clinic.

She watched the streets of London flash by, and she tugged off her gloves. The band of gold on her finger flared in the sun, and she lifted her hand. The ring she wore wasn't hers; it had been his. The love of her life, her sole reason for existing, and the man she had lost to Sherlock Holmes. The signet ring was simple, gold and obsidian. The only decoration it had was an ornately stylized letter M.

"My Lady? Where to?" Her driver asked, respect clear in his voice.

"To the prison, where my dear husband is being held. Time to go see him before I set things in motion."

"Yes, my lady." The car growled as he hit the accelerator, and she relaxed into the leather seats, idly twirling the ring around her finger.

Soon it would start, and the people of London would share her pain.

* * *

John took the familiar route to the pathology lab, and realized as he did that it had been years since he'd been there. The last time had been when… John's stomach rolled at the memory, and he had to stop in the hall outside the lab as a wave of sick terror washed over him. The last time he had been here was the day Sherlock Fell. The day he died. John swallowed, and closed his eyes. A memory of blood on the wet paving stones, the rain dripping into his eyes as he stared at the corpse on the ground, broken and limp….

_Sherlock is alive! Shit, calm down. Sherlock is alive, he's home. Calm down! Am I having another panic attack?! I haven't had one in over a year!_

"John! There you are, I thought I heard someone coming down the hall….? John?" It was Molly, standing in the doorway, holding open one of the lab doors. "John what's wrong?"

She sounded worried, as well she might. John dropped his bag, and grabbed at the wall. His lungs couldn't pull in enough air, and he was seeing spots. Terror was making his throat feel like it was closing up, and he struggled not to start hyperventilating in response.

"Sherlock!" Molly called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing in the lab. "It's John!"

Molly ran to his side, and put her shoulder under his. John thought he heard something crash to the floor in the lab, and the next thing he knew Sherlock erupted through the doors and was at his side.

"What happened? John? Are you hurt?" Sherlock went to John's other side, and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's neck and hung on for dear life.

"It's a panic attack, Sherlock. He used to have them all the time after…. After you left." That was Molly, her voice low and sad.

John was losing the battle with the panic, and he was shaking. He heard Sherlock swear, and his arms came around him, holding him up. Molly still had his other arm, and together they supported him into the lab, and into the small office. There was a couch in there, the standard office edition, but it felt like heaven under his weak legs. Sherlock sat with him on the couch, and Molly hovered at the door. John put his head between his knees and concentrated on slowing down his heart. Sherlock's warm hand was on the back of his neck, his touch helping.

"John, I'm here. I'm sorry John, so sorry….." Sherlock sounded lost, so lost. He didn't know what to do other than apologize, and John wasn't having it. He felt anger stir, pushing back against the panic. He had forgiven Sherlock, he truly had. Sherlock still had to forgive himself.

John reached out his hand, and grabbed Sherlock's thigh. The contact steadied him further, and John sucked in a breath, held it. Slowly let it out. Repeat. Sherlock moved closer, and put his head on the back of John's shoulder, his arm around the doctor's waist. John heard something so unexpected that the surprise of it startled him out of the vicious cycle he was caught in. _Sherlock was humming…_ John kept breathing, feeling Sherlock hum quietly against his shoulder, and focused on the sound. His voice was deep and smooth, and John recognized the song from the one Sherlock had played for him the other night.

"_Danny Boy_ again, Sherlock?" John's voice was raspy, and he coughed. Sherlock stopped humming, and John thought he felt Sherlock smile into his shoulder.

"Tell no one, my reputation wouldn't survive it." Sherlock's voice had a sad edge to it, but he was trying hard to sound his normal snarky self. Didn't work so well, as John knew his panic attack had done as much damage to Sherlock as it had to him.

"I haven't had one in a long time." John sighed, and leaned back. Sherlock's arm came to rest around his shoulders. John snuggled into his shoulder, and dropped his head under Sherlock's chin. His heart was still racing, but he relaxed in the warm heat of Sherlock, glad he was there. His presence was clearing out the residual panic.

Molly was still in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. She had suspiciously glittery eyes, and he heard her snuffle. She was looking at them with the most unusual expression, and John smiled at her. Molly smiled back, and wiped at her eyes. "You should probably eat something, maybe some tea. I'll make it."

"Um, thanks Molly. Sorry to be such a pain." John watched as she went to the little electric kettle in the corner, and turned it on. She pulled a tin of biscuits from the cupboard, and brought them over.

"Its fine, John. I've had them before. Takes time, and avoiding triggers. Something must have triggered you when you came here. It likely started the second you walked in the building." She sounded so nonchalant, like she was discussing the weather. She put the tin on the small coffee table, and went back to the kettle. She had just admitted to having debilitating panic attacks, and she wasn't at all upset to tell him.

"You? Can I ask….? Sorry, never mind. Mine is obvious, haven't been here since…" Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and John leaned into him more.

Molly had finished making the tea, carrying over a steaming mug and handed it to him. Her face was thoughtful, and there wasn't a trace of unease.

"I haven't always wanted to be a pathologist, messing with crime scene evidence and cutting up dead people for the police." She smiled at them both. "Sherlock knows, I'm sure." She gave Sherlock a small look full of meaning, and she straightened up, shoulders back, smoothing her hands down the front of her lab coat. "Don't worry about the mess, Sherlock, I'll take care of it. You two stay here, relax."

John watched as she walked back out to the lab, her long pony tail swaying with each light step. Molly always moved like she was still a girl, all float-y steps and birdlike movements. She was more relaxed in the lab than anywhere else, her stutter almost nonexistent. John found himself warming to her even more, impressed by her compassionate heart.

"The resiliency of the meek Dr Hooper is impressive indeed." Sherlock must have pulled his mind reading trick again, his words so closely matched John's own thoughts.

"She helped you save the world, and didn't tell a soul. Pretty damn impressive." John sipped his tea, feeling better as the heat spread through his limbs.

They both sat watching Molly as she swept up the broken glass on the floor next to where Sherlock had been sitting. Neither felt the need to speak, and Sherlock's fingers played with the soft hair behind John's ear before trailing down his arm, and back up again.

"Did you learn anything yet? From the evidence?" John asked, enjoying the tingles Sherlock was causing with his fingers.

"Some things, yes. I sent my results to Mycroft's people. Should hear something from them about it this afternoon. I was about to start on the blood samples."

"Well, let's get working then. Sooner we get this disciple, the better off we'll all be." John set the empty mug down, and got to his feet. He reached out and pulled Sherlock up with him. Sherlock looked at him, clearly assessing whether or not he really was okay. John kissed him, pressure firm. Sherlock lowered his head, and kissed him back, and things heated up fast. John was thrilled when Sherlock's tongue found his, and one smooth stroke back from his tongue made Sherlock shiver all the way down to his toes.

There was a tiny _sigh_ from the lab, and John knew Molly had seen. Sherlock lifted his head, and gave him a very serious look that made John's stomach do an ecstatic flip. _Oh let's hurry up on this case, I want to see where that look takes us….I've got a week off and there's no place better to be than in bed with someone you love!_

There was chirp from a mobile in the lab, and Molly checked her messages.

"Sherlock, my dead bodies just arrived, I've got to go. I can come back later once the post-mortems are finished."

"Thank you Molly, you've been invaluable." Sherlock walked out with John and John added his own thanks. Molly just gave him that tiny smile of hers, and waved as she left the lab.

"So. Blood samples. Those I can help with." John said, taking off his jacket and putting it with Sherlock's.

"I was in the process of setting up my slides." Sherlock went back to his seat, and took up where he left off.

John had trained at Bart's back in his university days, and he knew his way around the labs. Prepping blood slides was as easy as walking, and just as mindless. John appreciated the ease of the work, the familiarity, and doing this with Sherlock was enjoyable. Even if they were hunting a madman.

Molly had only been gone for ten minutes when Sherlock's mobile began to ring. Absently Sherlock answered, putting it on speaker.

"Molly, you could have just come back up here….." Sherlock started in, but Molly interrupted him, her voice full of such terror and panic both men stood up in shock.

"Oh God, Sherlock get down here! To the morgue! Oh God…" there was a sob, and they could hear tears in her voice, "Bring John! Hurry!" They could hear her crying in the background as the call died out.

The morgue was on the bottom floor, and usually a five-minute walk from the path labs. Sherlock and John made it in three, having forgone the elevator in favor of the stairs. They ran down the cold hall to the morgue doors, and burst through them together. Molly was standing next to her desk, boxes from a crime scene open next to her. She was crying into her hands, eyes wide in shock. There were bodies still in their black bags arranged on the tables, all of them occupied.

"Molly! What is it?" Sherlock went straight to her side, and looked down as she pointed with a shaking finger to one of the evidence bags. There was a slim woman's wallet in it, along with a mobile with a shattered screen. The wallet had an outside ID screen, and the ID card had a name and picture on it that made Sherlock's blood run cold.

**Mary Morstan**

John came up beside him, and looked down. He read the name on the ID, and froze. Molly continued to cry, as she turned to face the bodies still hidden in their bags on the tables. There was no sound in the morgue other than the hum of the refrigeration units and Molly's tears. The atmosphere went colder, and sunk into their bones.

Sherlock moved first, like he was sleepwalking, one hand lifted. John followed behind him, air cutting jagged rips in his lungs, as Sherlock grabbed the first bag's zipper. His hand stilled, fingers shaking. Molly started to cry harder, tears running from her eyes down her cheeks. John felt like he was going to be sick, and Mary's name was a running litany in his mind, screaming. He could only watch in sick horror as Sherlock began to drag the zipper open.

Molly gagged, her voice choked by relief and a stranglehold of terror. The bag opened to show the destroyed features of an adult male, skull blown away by a gunshot wound. Sherlock let go of the zipper, and dread sank into his soul as he turned to the body on the next table. John followed, a few steps behind, his skin ice-cold and his heart felt frozen, like it was pumping ice water instead of blood.

Sherlock tugged on the zipper, and John swallowed back the urge to vomit, certain he was going to see the desecrated face of the woman who still held a large part of his heart. Broken and bloody and unrecognizable… the zipper was open enough, and Sherlock pulled the edges back. Molly screamed, no control left, and she ran to Sherlock's side, looking down in a crazy mix of disbelief and glee. It wasn't Mary; it was another man, his face caved in by a powerful blunt force trauma, the blood the only recognizable thing about his face.

They all turned to the next bag, this one holding a body slightly smaller than the previous two. Molly had a death grip on Sherlock's arm, and he dragged her along with him as he went to the head of the bag. John stood where he was, incapable of moving. Fingers gripped the exam slab so tightly he couldn't feel them. John couldn't feel anything. Adrenaline was making him ill, and he could look nowhere else but at Sherlock's fingers, where they gripped the zipper. Sherlock was shaking so badly that he lost the tab, and had to clutch at it again. Molly buried her face in his shoulder, peeking out of one eye like she couldn't stand to look, or look away.

_OHGONOOHGODPLEASE NO! _John was screaming, screaming so loudly in his own mind he was certain everyone could hear him. Sherlock took forever to pull that zipper down, and John lost it. He ran to the table, pulled the zipper from Sherlock's hand, and ripped the bag open.

Blood. The stink of brain matter exposed to the air. John gagged, backing away from that last table, and the torment of the last couple of minutes.

_Thank you God, Thank you God…._

It wasn't Mary either. It was another gunshot victim, a man. Not as large as the other two had been, but big enough to notice that it couldn't have been Mary. She was short, a tiny woman compared to most. If they had been able to think past the dread and terror, perhaps they might have seen the truth earlier. Molly was crying all out now, Sherlock holding her to his chest. John felt his knees give out, and he fell to the floor next to the last slab. He felt like he was going to be ill. Sherlock walked over to him, and peeled the still sobbing Molly off of his shoulder and gave her to John. John's arms opened automatically, holding the crying pathologist to him as they sat together on the floor. He drew strength from the fact that Mary wasn't dead. She wasn't in the body bags. She wasn't dead. John tried his best to comfort Molly, and he looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's face was a stone mask, eyes assessing the bodies. An expression settled over his features, and John knew that Sherlock had made a connection that he hadn't seen.

John could think of nothing, his own mind lost in relief and shock. Molly was still crying, and he stroked her hair in soothing motions. Sherlock stood over them, and he captured John's gaze as he pulled out his mobile. He dialed a number, and waited, phone to his ear.

"Lestrade. Listen very carefully." He paused, and John felt the world shift at his next words.

"Mary Morstan has been taken."


	20. Chapter 20 Lady M

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns me. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the villain of my story! Thank you all for your patience, and please enjoy! Oh so very wicked indeed! **

**Read, review, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

"_**Lady M"**_

Prison Wandsworth stood gloomily in the weak midday sun, as the black town car growled to a stop outside the visitor's entrance. It was a moral void in the local landscape, creeping and cancerous in its appearance. The history of these walls was like a scar on the soul, impossible to forget.

Her valet opened the door, and she exited beneath the gray walls, feeling the prison's long history of despair and malice seep into her pores. She closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath, almost tasting the delicious bouquet on her tongue. Her very foolish husband suffered behind these walls, and a small smile flitted across her delicate features.

Her long black coat did little to disguise her figure, strong and lean and graced with curves in all the right places. Her black dress was elegance and simplicity, and she wore just enough gold to make a statement. Her heels were high enough to question the wisdom in wearing them at all, but she moved as if she were walking on air. She had an image to project; one she knew just how to cultivate. She moved with the loose limbed ease of a runway model, and her smile, when she chose to use it, had many of a man's heart lost forever. Long mahogany tresses got caught up in the wind and her men appreciated the sight. Or they would have if she didn't terrify them. They knew her for what she really was, the elite few who knew the truth. Her valet got back in the car and drove away, to return when she was done.

She went to the entrance, and her bodyguard hurriedly opened it for her. She stepped into the reception area for visitors, gracefully stepping over the threshold. There were a dozen people present, all waiting in grubby little plastic chairs or standing against the dirty walls. Her eyes danced over them in quick dismissal, ignoring the lot of them. There she waited, just inside the doorway, as her bodyguard filed in behind her.

The room quieted, and people turned to stare. She knew she was a sight; her black clothes, her hair, the jewelry, the imposing man at her back, it all screamed opulence. She hadn't gone for subtlety in a long time, and she let her disdain for the common crowd around her show. She walked forward, and cut through the people standing, waiting to get processed in to visit their loved ones. She went straight to a window that held nothing but a camera winking through the glass. She stared into the lens, knowing her image was being processed and her identity being confirmed. Her guard stood at her back still, arms folded, eyeing the people whispering behind her, all wondering what was going on.

A door opened to the right, and a man in a dark suit stood on the threshold. He nodded at her, and she stepped before him into the priority access room usually reserved for government officials. It was a staging area for what came next. She dropped her purse on the table, and walked to another door, waiting for her guard to be stripped of his weapons.

"Stay here. I shall be fine." She ordered, and the door opened. Her bodyguard was hesitant, unwilling to let her go ahead alone. It opened in a long, slim hallway that was lit only by blue LED strips at floor level along the wall. At the end was a room awash in white light. She had been through the process already, and knew to walk straight ahead, with a slow easy pace. She put a little sway into her hips, and smiled, the red gloss on her lips shiny in the half-light. She was being watched, cameras lined the walls. She walked down the hall, hearing the machinery behind the walls humming as they X-rayed her whole frame, searching for concealed weapons and other contraband. She was clean; she had nothing to worry about.

At the end of the hall she stepped out into the white room, and went to the desk in the center. It was large, made of oak, and screamed high-class Old World money. A single man sat there, a small laptop to his side. He had the standard look of all government lackeys; no personality, and horrid taste in suits.

"Name?" He asked, not looking at her. He wasn't being deliberately obtuse. He knew her name, the audio systems needed to hear her say it for confirmation of her identity.

"Lady Sybil Moran, wife of Lord Sebastian Moran, former Minister of Overseas Development."

The little laptop on the desk beeped, and a door appeared out of nowhere, that had until then been invisible in the white walls. It opened into the room behind it, and she stalked around the desk without hesitation. There were other doors that would have opened if she hadn't passed. Doors that held men armed to the teeth, perfectly willing to 'disappear' someone trying to breach security. _But they don't know that I know that…this is so much fun!_

The man she had come to see sat at the lone table in the interrogation room. Sebastian Moran looked terrible. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit that did nothing for his complexion, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His wrists were chained together to the metal table top. He had the toxic air of a man who had given up, depression emanating from him like a cloud. Sebastian appeared to have aged at least a decade since his capture and arrest the week before. _The fool cannot even handle a week behind bars! So very weak…._

There was a single chair across from him at the large table. She pulled it out, sat with her legs crossed, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. The large door behind her slid back into place, and she heard the deep _clink _as the locks engaged. There were cameras in each corner, and she felt the lenses track her as she moved, zooming in on her face. They were using FLIR, and were most likely using it to monitor her comments, her reactions, and his. They had done this her previous visit, when they had walked her through the protocols on how to visit her husband. She pretended not to know the full depth of what they were really using, the technology they had used to scan her as she entered. She let the fools continue to be blind. They thought her mindless, just another pretty face. A silly young woman who thought this whole thing was just a misunderstanding.

Nothing was private in this room; the minions of Mycroft Holmes were watching. She wasn't worried, though. She had been evading the Holmes brothers for years. She would dance around them again.

"_Darling!_ You look terrible! Have the dreadful prison guards been mean to you?" She smirked at him, sarcasm so thick in her voice he flinched. She could play the simple-minded lady of society for all it was worth.

Moran looked at his wife, and felt a ribbon of terror snake through his soul. Usually she appeared to be as she had been trained; a lovely young woman of good breeding, married to a minor nobleman who was far too old for her, who held a semi-important position in the government. Her control perfect, no one ever saw past her mask. No one ever saw the madness. A shadow of it was there now in her eyes, a wild thing that moved like a predator hunting in the night. Her eyes never left his, her smile never slipped, yet Moran felt as if she were raking thin daggers across his heart.

"Sybil, you look… well." Moran tried to sound casual, and failing. His heart started to beat faster, fear making a tiny trickle of sweat roll down his temple. "They said you were coming today, but I wasn't sure you'd be back."

"How could I not visit my darling husband? While he's in prison, charged with treason and terrorism? How can I not visit you, bring you comfort?" Her voice was light and gentle, sounded so very supportive. Except for her eyes. There the real Sybil Moran waited, and she was furious. "Those nasty government people tore through our house, my clothes, and even interrogated me! I was so upset, and you weren't there to make them go away! Oh Sebbie, you'll be home soon, won't you?"

Moran swallowed, and he knew he alone heard the wrath beneath the silly housewife routine.

"Sorry dear. This should all be over soon, I promise." He had no idea what to say, for anything he could think of would reveal more than he was willing.

"Oh yes dear, it will be." Sybil stood, and slowly began to pace around the table, her high heels clicking lightly on the floor, fingers trailing on the tabletop. She knew the cameras were following her every move. They wouldn't intervene, the scans had shown her clean.

"I was talking to my friends, and they said I should file for divorce. I had nothing to do with that silly train business, those nasty bombs. I wanted nothing to do with such a topic! Divorce after only two years of marriage. But I said you were innocent, and that I took my vows seriously. Marriage is forever…. 'Til death do us part." Sybil had reached his side, and Moran fought the impulse to flinch away from her hand as she traced a shiny red nail down the side of his face. She gave a sweet giggle, and her impersonation of a society wife was flawless. "I'll be waiting for you to come home, Sebbie."

There was flash of gold on her finger. His eyes tracked it, and he drew in a breath as he saw the signet. The black M nestled in the Welsh gold stabbed him through the heart. He felt a thread of anger, and looked up at his darling wife. She knew he had seen the ring, and she smiled at him sweetly, daring him to say anything.

"You're wearing it, Sybil." Was all he could say, all his courage could muster.

"Of course I am! Silly Sebbie, why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?" Sybil leaned down, her gorgeous hair falling in a sheet over one shoulder, and she kissed him gently on the lips. Moran held still, and refused to let his hands shake. She smiled against his lips, feeling his terror.

"I must go dear. Just had to stop by, show my support. I'm certain you'll be free in no time! I've got plans this afternoon, a girls' night out! Big plans, lots of fun." She pulled back, smiled one last time, and turned to leave.

Moran felt his stomach drop, bile encroaching up his throat. Whatever she had planned had already started. Her heels clicked away at the floor, like tiny hammers chipping at his sanity. The door sealed shut behind her as she left, and Moran knew he was a dead man if she ever got him truly alone. She was a sight to behold, the monster the world knew as Sybil Moran.

Sebastian Moran had spent the better part of the last decade serving two masters. The North Koreans, and James Moriarty. He had been his chief disciple for years, trusting his double allegiance to keep him secure in his position. When Moriarty had died, Moran had dim aspirations of taking over, but that had all been laid to rest by Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had torn the syndicate apart, and Moran had only escaped because he hid behind his North Korean contacts. He had turned to his remaining masters, and followed their lead.

Having an agent like Sybil as his wife was supposed to be a boon; but she had spurned his advances, and scoffed at his plans. His instructions to destroy Parliament had only drawn her scorn. She had only cooperated enough in her role as wife to keep up the happy newly wed façade. And to protect them from discovery at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. She had raced ahead of Holmes on the Continent, her skills put to use silencing leads and securing evidence that would send Holmes to knocking at their door. To the world it would have looked like a young noblewoman spending her husband's money across Europe. No one had noticed the body count, or the blood on her hands. Least of all Sherlock Holmes.

What control he had over her was gone the second he was arrested. She had an agenda, one that she had wanted to follow the second Moriarty shot himself in the head on that damn roof. It was only through his manipulation of Moriarty's last orders that had given Moran any edge in keeping her in line. Moriarty had ordered her to hide, to play the role of Sybil Moran, and she had obeyed. Her steadfast allegiance to a man who killed himself when confronted by Sherlock Holmes left him bitter with jealousy. Now that he was in no position to stop her, she felt freed from her promise.

He had only the barest idea of what she had planned, and her aspirations were enough to frighten him even here.

Sybil had married him only at the behest of her beloved master, to hide her deeper into the fabric of society. Her madness had flourished in secret, the world never learning who she really was. Once upon a time it was she who had held John Watson at her mercy, the tiny red laser dot from her sniper rifle zeroed in on the explosives vest, that night so long ago at the pool. She had led the sniper team that night, her every action attuned to her master's will as she directed the nightmare laser show.

The ring she wore for the man she loved, and it was not Sebastian Moran. She wore the ring of the man she lost to Sherlock Holmes. She had once been known as Death, beloved disciple of James Moriarty. Sebastian Moran had lost his position as chief disciple to a slim wisp of a woman who looked for all the world like a fashion model. She was as deranged as Moriarty, and she had no concern for her own life. All she wanted was vengeance.

The world would burn, and Sybil would avenge her true love. James Moriarty.

* * *

Sybil stepped out from under the imposing walls of the prison, wholly unaffected by the malaise that usually stole over people where she stood. She had accomplished one mission today already; and her second would only need time for it to complete on its own.

Her car purred to a stop just as she walked out to the curb, and her guard opened the door. She got in, and as the car with its blackout windows drove away from Wandsworth, she knew she would never have to play the role of Lady Sybil Moran again. She would once again be Death, last and greatest disciple of James Moriarty.

Removing the compact and tweezers from her purse, she, with infinite care, peeled away the red latex seal from her lips. To anyone else the seal had appeared as fresh lip gloss. To her husband, it was the means by which she freed herself from his pathetic existence. She let no trace of the poison touch her mouth or skin, and disposed of the dangerous little pieces of latex in a black baggie. He would be dead within the next forty eight hours. Considering his current condition, most likely sooner.

"Gentlemen, we're going dark." She paused, and gave a beautiful breathy laugh. "Tell the others we are ready."


	21. Chapter 21 Three Words, One Promise

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

** WARNING: Sex. Have fun! **

**Read on. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty One**

"_**Those Three Words, and One Promise"**_

_**Previously….**_

_She sensed it, the presence just out of arm's reach to her side. There was no warning, no hint that she wasn't alone. That she had failed. Mary closed her eyes, and smiled. The click of a hammer being cocked cracked loud in the overwhelming silence, and a soundless roar built up in her ears. __**Three put down, better than most could do. End me then. Let it be by a worthy opponent.**__Mary's killer leveled the barrel of the gun at her temple, and spoke._

_"Hello, Mary. Let's talk." _

_ Mary's eyes flew open, for she heard the voice of Death._

It was a voice she had never expected to hear again. Mary turned her head, her eyes widening in disbelief. The woman who held her gun pointed at Mary's temple was known only as Death. Mary's heart stopped, squeezed tightly under her ribs. _Dear God, what trouble has found me now….._

Death was a specter in her black tactical gear, almost invisible in the darkness under the trees. From head to toe Death was dangerous. The weapon she carried was silenced, black and lethal in her delicate hands. Her long tresses were bound in a tight braid, trailing down her back. Her fine features twisted into a facsimile of joy, as if she were playing hide and seek in the dark with her best friends. Hide and seek with bullets and dead bodies.

"Well done, Mary. I was certain I wasn't going to make it in time. It's been a bit busy on my end lately. Glad to see you haven't lost anything in retirement." Death smiled at her, tossing out the compliment casually, as if she weren't aiming a pistol in the other woman's face. Mary carefully contemplated her options, and chose caution over more violence. Death had yet to pull the trigger.

Mary had met her once, on a mission eight years back. That mission haunted her even now. During that mission she had met a beautiful creature who was wholly evil. She harbored an evil that was self-aware, and made no excuses. Death had relished in the job, made it into high art, her genius for weaving a tapestry of blood unrivalled. Mary merely provided support, and watched Death work her dark magic. She was so young, and so very talented. Far too talented. Mary had always suspected that the day would come when someone saw the evil clearly, and would take the time to see it flourish. Some people were born _wrong, _born disconnected from their souls. The woman called Death was one such person.

The gun was still pointing at Mary's face, and she looked past the barrel, into the eyes of madness. Mary still held her gun, but she took her finger from the trigger, and slowly lowered it to point at the ground. Death watched her carefully, and she didn't relax her stance. Mary knew she was confronted by a wild animal, and one aggressive action would result in her messy death.

"Should I call you Mary? I shouldn't call you by that other name, should I?" Death spoke, the gun unwavering. Her voice was calm, as if discussing the latest fall fashions over tea.

"Mary is what I go by now. Is it still Death, or have you chosen a new name as well?" Mary matched her tone for tone, smiling a little as the younger woman grinned wider. Such a pretty smile, it hid the evil so well.

"You haven't been paying attention, Mary. Look closer."

The face before her morphed and dropped the visage of insanity to blend into another face. The face of the young society wife of the traitor, Sebastian Moran. The man Sherlock and John had stopped from destroying Parliament last week. Just the reminder of John and Sherlock made Mary's broken heart crack further, anger filling the voids.

"Sybil Moran." Mary breathed the name, and she fought back her astonishment. _She has been here in London the whole time, out in the open, and no one saw her! I never saw her! _"Very impressive."

"So sorry about your marital issues, dear. Are we going to exchange pleasantries all evening, or do you think I can stand up?" Mary took a chance. If Death wanted her dead, she wouldn't have revealed herself, and Mary would be another cooling corpse in a small forgotten park. There were too many questions unanswered, but now was not the time for them. One strike team had failed; another could be well on its way.

"Oh please do Mary. I haven't come for your life, not tonight." Death stepped back, and deliberately lowered the gun, finger still on the trigger, pointed at the ground.

Mary stood, her knees wet from the damp gravel, cold dripping down into her boots. Mary looked back to the bridge, her eyes scanning beyond for any movement among the trees.

"There was a car, there may be more." Mary grimaced, and turned to Death. "Were they yours?" She looked Death in the eyes, wondering if she would be able to tell if this creature was lying or not.

"No. They were sent to capture, and failing that, to kill." Simple, straight forward. Death maintained the sweet mask of Sybil Moran, only her eyes revealing the true nature underneath. Mary nodded. She would believe her, for now.

"By…. Who?" Mary almost didn't ask, the list was long indeed who wanted her dead.

"I don't know for certain, but I know it was Magnussen who let slip your current hiding place. Apparently he traded you for information to get to someone else." Death stopped speaking, her attention caught by a distant sound from the street. Car doors slammed, and lights were flickering through the trees. "You can stay here and die, or you can come with me."

"I'll live, thank you." Mary replied, her gun lifting from the ground, as she turned to place herself beside Death, facing the approaching threat.

"Mary, you know better." Death sighed, and she cast a glance at the gun in Mary's hand. "Go clean, all of it please. Or you can stay here."

"What a shame." Mary groaned, and began to strip down the gun. She was oddly fond of it, but this was necessary. Her prints were all over it, and she had just used it to kill two men. If she used it again in the future, the ballistics would create a trail back to this shooting, and her actions tonight. Keeping an eye on the approaching lights, Mary broke down her gun, and tossed the pieces in to the stream, deep _plunks_ of noise muffled by the trees. She pulled out her wallet, and mobile. The mobile was GPS enabled, too easily tracked. She tossed them both back towards the bodies, knowing the police would find them, and think her either missing, kidnapped or dead with no female body present. Her cover as Mary Morstan was blown. The attempt on her life tonight proof positive there was no going back.

As long as there were no prints left on the gun, the police would have no clue she fired the shots that killed those men. If they even found it. Most likely Sherlock would, though. Mary was no fool; John and Sherlock would learn all too soon what had happened here. She knew Sherlock would see past the violence, and know she left willingly. The time between the police getting to the scene and Sherlock and John finding out about it would allow her to disappear.

She had no intention of turning to Sherlock and John for help. John had betrayed her love, leaving her abruptly, no warning. She knew the bond between the two men was powerful, but she hadn't expected it to exclude her. Sherlock had broken John with grief and despair, and she had been left to pick up the pieces. For all the good it had done for her heart.

The truth of her identity was no longer a secret. Mary was now a hunted animal, and she would no longer be playing nice. The lights in the trees were closing in, the passage of men moving quickly through the underbrush a bare whisper of sound in the silence.

"Sad really, that we can't stay, have some more fun. My boys are waiting for us on the other side of the park." With that, Death turned and jogged off into the trees, silent and sleek. Mary knew there was no going back from this point, the hunt had begun for real now. Mary turned and followed, the dark swallowing her as well. She felt a tendril of manic delight unfurl from her broken heart, a seedling growing into retribution.

* * *

_**Now…..**_

"John?" Lestrade's voice was far away, even though the Inspector was standing right next to him. John was at the crime scene in the small park, staring down at the large pool of blood that still glistened in the sun, sinking into the stone work of the small bridge. Here two men had died. A third had died about a hundred feet away, beneath the branches of an overgrown pine.

Sherlock and John had only been on scene for twenty minutes or so, but John had lost all track of time. John had managed to keep it together right up until this point. Her mobile and ID had been found here, sticky with blood. _Mary was here, why was she here? Where is she?_

Sherlock had led the way, following the very clear trail of multiple people running through the woods of the small park. The first scene had captured Sherlock's attention instantly, and the look that fell over his face had nearly driven John mad. It was if Sherlock was angry, yet gleefully satisfied all at once. Like he had just confirmed a long-held theory. The bed of pine needles had left clear marks, as feet running at high speeds had torn up the soft damp earth.

Sherlock hadn't spoken, merely looked at John before walking in deeper. John was so deeply conflicted he could do nothing but follow behind Sherlock, Lestrade at his side. _Would she still be safe if I hadn't left? Did they take her because of me? Because of Sherlock? Is this to get at us? The disciple?_

John stared at Sherlock's back, wondering what he was feeling. A part of him was screaming at him to reach out to this man, to hold him close and seek comfort. Sherlock would make this better, he would solve this conflict in his heart. John loved Sherlock so much, so very much, and that he did was making him feel wretched. John was crippled by another part of him; the part that said that Mary being in danger must be his fault. Must be John's fault because he had been selfish, and left her for Sherlock. He hadn't loved her enough. If he had, she might still be okay. And that someone wanted them to suffer, so they took Mary.

"John, we sent units to your house, they're searching it now. She wasn't there." Lestrade said, voice low. John barely had the ability to nod, let alone speak. Sherlock had followed the stream down a little hill, and into the woods. He was a moving shadow under the trees, and John felt like Sherlock was slipping away too. Mary was gone, Mary was gone and it was his fault. He didn't deserve her, he didn't deserve Sherlock.

"Lestrade." Sherlock's voice drifted out from the trees, lifting John temporarily from his cycle of guilt. John followed Lestrade down the hill, and they walked under the cool shadows of the trees. Sherlock was standing next to the stream, his gaze absorbed by the rippling waters. As John approached, Sherlock looked up at him, his face impassive.

"I know what happened." Sherlock paused, and his voice was cold, heartless. John shivered, and his heart felt like it was breaking. Sherlock hadn't sounded this reserved in years, not since the beginning. Whatever it was, it was bad, so bad Sherlock wouldn't let emotion prevent him from saying it. _She's dead, and they hid her body or took it, Mary please no….._

"John, you must hear me, and know I speak the truth. I am not wrong."

John was struck speechless, and could only nod once. Sherlock held his gaze prisoner for a moment longer, eyes like ice, resolved. His voice was like steel, and John knew that Sherlock never lied about his deductions, not ever. John nodded, and waited.

"She was chased by the three men, the ones who died. She ran across the street, into the woods. One was closer than the others, and she ran for the pine tree. Not to climb to safety, but as a means to kill. She ran up the trunk, jumped over him, and kicked him so hard that he killed himself, cracking his head open on the tree. She then proceeded to run deeper in to the park, heading here for this clearing, and the bridge. She was losing ground, they were gaining on her, until she leapt from the bridge, and made the tree line here." Sherlock paused, and gestured to the ground. There were long skid marks dug into the gravel of the stream bed, and a deeper depression at the end.

"She evaded the shots they were firing at her here, by going below their line of fire. Here was were Mary drew her own weapon, and killed them both." Lestrade moved, as if to argue, and Sherlock stilled him with a single look. "She fired two shots only, two shots to their even dozen."

Sherlock pointed down to the gravel, and nestled in among the rocks was two spent shells, nine millimeters from the size.

"She knelt here, until another woman joined her, from the other side of the park. The tread, the pacing all suggest a woman, late twenties, early thirties. Size 8 shoes." Sherlock was pointing to the dirt, and there was another set of footprints, stance shoulder width apart and facing Mary's position.

"They made no aggressive moves towards each other, and from Mary's positions as she stood, she knew her companion, knew her well enough to face a new threat that was coming from the street. Look there, in the ferns, into the stream from the opposite bank. You can see several lines in the damp earth, several men closing in on them. The women left, but not before Mary dumped her ID, her mobile, and her gun."

"Hey hold on mate, Mary shot those thugs, and dumped her gun? What gun?" That was Lestrade, clearly unwilling to believe that the woman he had met could have done all that.

John was still staring at Sherlock, and he felt something shift in his chest. Something was changing inside his heart, and it was breaking off a piece of himself he thought he would have to carry forever.

"Yes, her gun." Sherlock threw off his coat, and tossed it away from the stream, higher up on the bank. He then did something John or Lestrade would have sworn he'd never do, ever, in a million years. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, rolled up the hem of his slacks and….. Waded into the stream. The cold water swirled up Sherlock's pale legs, as he carefully navigated the stream, to where he halted in the middle, the deepest part. He stared down for second, and slowly bent over, pulling up his sleeve to his elbow. His arm sank almost all the way to his sleeve, and his fingers gripped something below the surface. He lifted up, and tossed a wet dripping black object from the water to his coat. It fell silently, droplets thrown everywhere. Three more times he went back into the water, before tossing up the last piece.

"Mary Morstan went 'clean'. She got rid of her ID, her mobile, and the weapon used to kill those men. Her actions speak of training, at the highest level. Look and see."

Lestrade went to see, and he swore, instantly recognizing what he saw. John couldn't move, his feet refusing to let him go see, his mind incapable of believing. He had recognized the first piece almost as soon as Sherlock had pulled it from the icy water.

"John." Sherlock's voice was an order, jarring him free. John moved forward, eyes on Sherlock's long coat. It was a disassembled nine mill, with a silencer. The truth was cracking John apart, and he felt like the entirety of his life was built on lies. Nothing but lies. Everyone he loved had lied to him.

"No John, not your entire life." John hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud at all, until Sherlock answered him. "You are not a lie."

"But the people who are in it are." John whispered back. He couldn't look at either man, and John turned from the stream, and the evidence that Mary Morstan wasn't who she had claimed to be. Mary was an efficient killer, easily dispatching three armed thugs without hesitation. Sherlock had lied to him, played hide and seek on the Continent for two years while John's heart was broken, mourning the man he loved past all reason.

"What does that say about me, that people find it okay to lie to me? That everyone I have ever loved has lied to me? Am I not worth the truth?"

John couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't cope, too much change too fast. Four weeks ago his best friend was dead, and he was moving on, in love with a funny, smart, kind woman. Two weeks ago his best friend came back from the dead, and resurrected John's heart along with him, changing his whole life in the process. He had asked Mary to marry him because he loved her, but he didn't love her enough to resist Sherlock. He had tried to keep going in the direction he thought he should. Sherlock's pull on his heart yanked him off course, and put him in this new place. He had Sherlock, he had him fully, and John let Mary go. His guilt, at being unable to love her enough to stay, had been eating away at him. His guilt made him angry; how to feel guilty when she was a lair, such a liar?

"Sherlock…" John needed Sherlock. But he couldn't ask. Mary would have married him, lying to him the entire time about what she really was, about what she could do.

John was shattering now, confusion breaking apart his foundations. He was shaking, and his mind was at its breaking point. First the panic attack, then the scare in the morgue, then the crime scene, and now this revelation. Too much, too close together.

Anger was boiling up from his core, anger so fast it made his fists clench so tight his nails dug into his palms, blood creeping from the welts. He was beyond sanity now, and John lost any shred of control he'd been holding onto the last two years.

John screamed, _screamed out his rage. He wasn't John anymore, he was a wounded animal, screaming out in defiance at the world, daring it to tear him down further. To break him faster._

"_Damn you! Damn you all!" _John was lost, so lost in the pain and betrayal he didn't care, he cared for nothing. He just kept screaming it, over and over and over. His fists were pounding on something hard, something that bit back, the pain enraging him further. He hit and hit for eternity, until his arms refused to move.

John did not weep, he did not cry. He beat at the earth, and struck out at the confining hands that reached for him.

_I am not this man… I am not this man….. I have died before, twice now, this is nothing….. She lied to me, I loved her. She lied to me… but I lied to her. I tried being who I thought I was, a man in love with a good woman…..I deserve all of this…. I let Sherlock face Moriarty alone, I didn't fight hard enough… he left me, he died…God, pull me back, pull me back from this…. Help me, please God…Don't let this happen to me again, help me….Sherlock!_

John was dimly aware that he was making no sense, even to himself. He felt separated from his body, as if he were watching a show on the television. He saw himself collapsed to his knees on the wet gravel, hands bloody from pounding at the stones. His face pressed into a warm, comforting surface, and he heard a drumming in his ear, a sound her knew, that he loved. He was in Sherlock's arms, the detective wrapped so tightly around him John knew that gravity had lost the fight, and that Sherlock held him to the earth instead.

Sherlock was saying something, over and over. John couldn't understand it, his brain unable to weave the words together. He tried to calm himself, to hear Sherlock better. It was very important right then for him to hear Sherlock, so very important.

"I love you John. I promise to never lie to you again. I love you John, I love you…." Over and over again Sherlock whispered it to him, voice urgent. "I love you John Watson, come back to me…"

_Did he just say that? Sherlock?_ He moved his head, tilted it back, to look Sherlock in the eyes. He knew John saw him, heard him, but he continued to say it, over and over.

"I love you John." Sherlock whispered to him, voice full of guilt and sadness, and for some reason, joy. Sherlock smiled at him, and said it again. "I love you John Watson."

"Say that again." John whispered back, and he felt his own inner strength stirring in his soul. Felt his abused heart respond, the words like rain on the desert he was dying in.

"I love you John." Sherlock was no longer whispering it, speaking at a normal tone. He didn't care that Lestrade was mere feet away, that he heard everything. Sherlock would shout it to the universe, if it made John come back from the edge.

Sherlock bent down, and kissed him. Sweet and chaste, but full of emotion. John sighed, his eyes drifted shut, and he kissed his lover back, letting the kiss fill his heart. Sherlock broke away, and his voice serious, he made John a promise.

"I promise to never deceive you, to lie to you. I will never hide something from you, even if I think you knowing will place you in danger." Sherlock paused, and continued. "I promise you this because I love you, and you deserve everything from me, all that I can give you. I can do no less. All facets of my heart and mind belong to you, John Watson."

* * *

Lestrade watched them, so absorbed in each other, that they cared not where they were, or who watched them. Greg felt his own heart stir, and he struggled not to cry. The love between them was so powerful; it swayed his damaged heart. Greg Lestrade was an old romantic, and he hated for people to know it. Yet here beneath the trees, Lestrade watched a miracle, and did not care who saw him tear up.

A long time ago, he had once told John Watson that Sherlock Holmes was a great man. And that if they were very lucky, one day he would even be a good one. Lestrade was so lucky today. He saw Sherlock Holmes admit to love, and love enough to make a promise.

* * *

John sat on the bench, in the sun, in that little park where everything had changed again. John felt freer, he felt lighter. His guilt over how he treated Mary was swiftly disappearing. She had kept such large secrets from him, and the way she had been acting right up until the point he broke it off made it clear she had no intention of ever telling him.

"It was in self-defense, this whole mess?" John asked, looking down at his hands. His knuckles stung, but he'd done worse to them.

"Yes, it was." Sherlock was sitting next to him, pulling on his socks.

"Lestrade going to start looking for her then? Bring her in for questioning?"

"Officially she is a person of interest, but not a murder suspect. I think Lestrade is letting this sit on the back burner. Apparently those men were professional bad guys, so no one is seeing this as too urgent." Sherlock was trying his laces up, and John found himself staring at those long pale fingers. "They'll be seeing who hired them for the hit, obviously, but they'll be leaving Mary alone for now."

"Good." John sat back on the bench, and put his face back to the sky. It was in early in the afternoon yet, and the sun came come out from behind the clouds long enough to warm his bones before ducking away again.

"I will find her only if you want me too." Sherlock said, and he sat back as well, his hand coming to John's shoulder, arm along the backrest.

"She left willingly, and she wasn't hurt. If she wanted our help, or the police's help, she would have come to us. Let her go." John reached up, and took Sherlock's hand in his.

"Do we need to be somewhere right now? Back at the lab or at Mycroft's place?" John was not looking forward to seeing the elder Holmes right now, he'd probably punch him the second he showed his snarky face. Some of his thoughts must have been obvious, because Sherlock laughed quietly.

"Technically yes, but give me a moment….." Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and scooted over next to John. John let him snuggle up along his side, Sherlock's arm around his shoulder. Sherlock tilted his mobile so John could see what he was typing.

**Canceling this afternoon –SH**

**Whatever for? –MH**

**Had something more urgent come up –SH**

Nothing for close to a minute, then:

**What on Earth is more important? –MH**

**John –SH**

Sherlock promptly shut down his mobile, and tucked it away again.

"Well, I give it less than a minute before he starts in on your mobile sooo…." Sherlock, in a very sneaky move, plucked John's mobile from his jacket pocket and turned that off too. Handing it back, Sherlock smirked at him, eyes all shiny and happy in the sun.

John laughed at his antics, and they both stood up. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John's, and they headed out of the park, back towards the street.

"Hey, Sherlock! Your brother wants you to call him!" That was Lestrade, his mobile to his ear, a harassed look on his face, standing with some of his officers. Sherlock just waved at him, and neither of them stopped.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had wanted to stick around and chat, talking nonstop about the news. She kept wandering back into the flat, before Sherlock managed to close all the doors. Sherlock then was dragging John to the bedroom, shoving the door shut, and throwing the lock.

The entire can ride back from the park had felt different, the air alive with electricity. Sherlock knew he had crossed a milestone in their relationship today, and John felt it too. Sherlock held John's hand the ride home, thumb rubbing at the back of his doctor's hand.

Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, but John had a clue, as he was stripped down to his trousers in under minute. Sherlock wanted to touch him, and his hands lifted up without thought. His fingers slid over John's smooth skin, running down his chest, across his firm stomach. Sherlock was fascinated by the way John's skin felt, the charge it built in him. Sherlock didn't flinch when John reached for his waistband, and tugged his shirt free. Sherlock lowered his head, and John met him halfway in an open-mouthed kiss. He let his hands rest on John's hips, with his doctor's tongue sliding over his own. Sherlock groaned, and he took over the kiss, delving deeper, and the taste of John was intoxicating.

Sherlock felt a tugging at his shoulders, and let John remove his shirt without once lifting his mouth. Sherlock was so absorbed in John he didn't realize that John was walking them back towards the bed. His doctor had his hands on Sherlock's waistband, and popped the tab free, and the zipper down. Sherlock felt his slacks fall to the floor, but John's tongue was in his mouth again, and he didn't care.

Suddenly John tugged on his arms, and so swiftly Sherlock had no warning, John threw Sherlock on the bed. John came up over him, arms braced on either side of Sherlock's head. He stilled, wondering what John had in mind. John gave him no time to think, mouth on his, as John settled himself squarely on top of Sherlock. Thigh to thigh, groin to groin, chest to chest. John kissed Sherlock, deeper. Sherlock felt John against him, restrained by his trousers, and then Sherlock noticed he had nothing on but his underwear…

"John." Sherlock breathed out, as John paused for air. "I…."

"Let me, Sherlock. It'll be ok." John whispered, kissing his ear, licking his neck.

It took every ounce of courage Sherlock had to nod, unable to speak. Tension was creeping up on him, and John seemed to just know. He always knew. John eased over, to Sherlock's side. His hand captured the detective's, and placed it on his chest. Sherlock let his hand roam, the feel of John calming and enticing all in one. John rested his free hand on Sherlock's stomach, thumb swirling a tiny circle in the pale skin. John kissed Sherlock again, starting slow, holding back, and teasing. Sherlock got impatient, and lifted his head, wanting more of John's mouth. John let him in, and as Sherlock's tongue plunged between his lips, John's hand slid under the waistband of Sherlock's shorts.

Sherlock jumped, and froze. John had him fully in hand, literally. Hand so hot, grip not too tight but not tight enough….. John kissed him, and Sherlock eased as John's hand stilled. Sherlock was breathing fast, fear feeding the desire, and the fire that burned every inch of him lit into an inferno. John smiled, as Sherlock relaxed. His doctor leaned over him, put his arm under Sherlock's head, and looked him in the eyes.

John wouldn't let him look away; Sherlock couldn't. John's hand tightened around him, and Sherlock felt the earth move beneath him. John moved again, up so slowly, thumb just under the tip. Sherlock fought hard not to close his eyes, John's gaze was the single most important thing to him in that moment. John's eyes were dark, his face flushed. His doctor had him completely under his control. Sherlock's hips jerked once as John slid his hand down to the base of him, stroking back up in one long motion. John fought off a grin as Sherlock hardened even more, hips lifting to match his strokes. Any touch of fear he had been feeling was leaving, overcome by John's hands.

Sherlock had no ability to think. He was nothing but this feeling, arousal sweeping through every cell of his body, knocking down the walls of his mind. Sherlock was gone, and only this aching need was left. John saw the change in Sherlock's eyes. His eyes were burning, like silver stars on the edge of a supernova. John leaned down, capturing Sherlock's mouth again, tongue sweeping in, making him moan deeply in his chest. Sherlock was moving with his hand now, refusing to let John lift away. He had Sherlock where he needed him, so absorbed in his hand, his mouth he wouldn't have a chance to think, to be afraid.

John kissed his way down Sherlock's throat, admiring the rapid pulse with his tongue before moving on. John kissed Sherlock down his chest, tongue tasting, licking. He kept his hand at that steady rhythm, not too fast, he didn't want to rush it for his detective. John kept going, Sherlock's hand drifting to his hair, and the back of his neck. Every time John paused, and kissed, he stroked his detective's hard length, making Sherlock moan.

"John…" Nothing but a whisper, one John was certain Sherlock was unaware he'd said. Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut, one hand buried so deeply into the comforter it was likely ripped. The other was holding on to John, fingers losing and regaining their grip in his hair. John kept kissing down, to where his hand was pleasing his detective so. John moved Sherlock's shorts down, and away, enticing him into lifting his hips, distracted thoroughly.

John contemplated his options, and realized he had none, other than to make them both happy. John wanted to be with his detective, and there was no hesitation in his heart. John kissed Sherlock, where no one had ever been before. Sherlock responded by pulling his hair, but John persisted, and swallowed him whole. It wasn't unpleasant at all; John moved his hand away, and wrapped his tongue around Sherlock, wet and hot.

Sherlock couldn't find air, he felt nothing but John's mouth wrapped around his erection. It felt so _damn good, so hot and wet._ His muscles were seizing, and releasing. John lifted his head, sucking as he went, tongue teasing the underside of his cock.

John was amazed at himself, so incredibly turned on by the feel of this man in his mouth. He was so hard, and his hips lifted with John's mouth, tempo going faster. John encouraged him, cupping his balls with one hand, tugging as he sucked. He went faster, harder, taking him as deep as he could, before pulling back, and beginning again.

_This is for you, your first time, all for you…anything for you… I love you…_

John poured every ounce of love he could into his mouth, his hands, working Sherlock towards his climax. Sherlock was close, so close, and John wasn't going to stop until he came. It was a gift he so badly needed, and John needed to give it to him….

"_John!"_ Sherlock was undone. A wave of heat and sweet pain spilled from the foundations of his body, running through his veins, cascading over the walls of his heart, and tore through the streets of his mind, washing away all thought. Sherlock was undone, cast adrift. John had him, securing him, carrying the sensation farther, mouth taking Sherlock all in as he finally came.

"John…." Just a plea, a whisper, cast out into the world. John swallowed, his mouth wrapped tight, and helped Sherlock finish. _Yes….. Just let go…. I love you…._

John lifted away, and relaxed against Sherlock's hip. His head hurt for some reason, until he remembered that Sherlock still had a death grip in his hair. John smiled, kissed his love's hip, and carefully pried Sherlock's immobile fingers free from his hair.

"John…." Sherlock could barely manage that, as his body quaked from tiny tremors. "John, I love you."

John looked up at Sherlock, and caught his gaze. Sherlock was in a state John had never seen before, ever. Totally, hopelessly relaxed. And there was a tiny hint of a smile playing about his lips.

"I love you too." John moved back up the bed, laying on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's heart was beating hard, and he was all loose muscles, and shaking hands.

John reached up to kiss him, but hesitated. Sherlock raised a brow, then understanding swept across his eyes. John blushed as Sherlock laughed, and he grabbed John's head, and pulled him down for a kiss, tongue sweeping across his lips before dipping inside. Sherlock was shaking, his tongue gentle on John's, and all soft caresses. Sherlock was unreserved, open, his face clearly showing every thought and feeling.

The afternoon was gone, the fall light slipping away into evening. Sherlock kicked off his shorts, and pulled down the blankets, tugging John to follow him under the covers. John went, shucking off his trousers and shorts before joining him. Sherlock wrapped himself around John, tucking his doctor's head under his chin, legs intertwined.

"You okay?" John had to ask, even though he knew Sherlock had enjoyed himself. John kissed at the soft spot under Sherlock's shin, smiling as Sherlock gave a tiny shiver.

"Hhhhhmmmm." Sherlock was still getting little quivers, and his toes had taken forever to unfurl from the force of his orgasm. "I assume so, but I've never done that before. Need more data before I can confirm."

"More data? What do you…. Oh right. More." John kissed his neck again, and licked, the taste of Sherlock all salty, making him very interested in acquiring more data. "Let's get some more."

"I'm fairly certain there's more to this, yes?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in John's ear, his voice full of curiosity.

"Um, yeah…. Never done any of it, but yeah." John knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and he felt a rush of excitement and fear flash in his stomach. Sherlock pulled John closer, one of his hands drifting down to caress a firm buttock. "Never done any of this, actually. With a bloke at least. Only ever had that last bit done to me, so I sorta knew what I was doing."

Sherlock seemed to be pondering this, his hand rubbing John's backside, long fingers strong and firm. John was distracted by his fingers, enjoying the buildup of heat. He was still aroused from earlier, but he had been content to relax, and let Sherlock enjoy his first orgasm. Or he was until Sherlock's fingers started touching him in all these new places. John pressed his hips against Sherlock; the sensation of his cock rubbing the detective's making him want to keep moving. John sighed, one of his hands drifting down Sherlock's side, his hip. Nudging his cock against Sherlock's, John was impressed at his lover's response, hardening quickly, and pressing back along his.

John groaned, shut his eyes, and kept up his little thrusts, the soft heat and hard muscles pulling away his thoughts. Sherlock's hand on his ass was gripping harder, pulling John to him, fingers inching closer to his rear. John nipped at his neck, tugging the skin between his lips and sucking. Sherlock groaned softly, pulling John as close as he could manage.

"John." Sherlock gasped, "You, or me."

"Mmm?" John wasn't thinking, too absorbed in the taste of his detective's skin, his hard cock rubbing on his own.

"John….. Can I please…?" Fingers went straight to the point, pressing against John's anus.

John jumped, froze, and held his breath as Sherlock pressed two fingers to him, the sensation so foreign he had no notion what to do. He groaned, Sherlock pressing himself against John's cock, long fingers pushing into his ass. John was swept up, what Sherlock was doing to him so completely new, so very hot, he got so hard that every tiny thrust of Sherlock's cock on his own made John whimper.

Sherlock took that as encouragement, kissing John roughly, his tongue eager, dancing between his teeth. John struggled to keep up, but his mind was focused on Sherlock's two fingers, which had loosened him up just enough to dip in. The stretching, the pressure, all so overwhelming John was panting into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock pressed his fingers in, almost an inch, and began to move them apart. John moaned, as Sherlock worked him, spreading his ass with his long fingers.

Sherlock lifted his face from John's, and asked him roughly, "Let me John, please..?"

He accompanied this plea with a deepening of his fingers, both fully inside of John, plunging them in and out. John was consumed by Sherlock, wanting him to keep going, so eager he pushed his ass back against Sherlock's hand. John nodded, and went back to sucking on the growing red spot low on Sherlock's neck.

"Don't worry, I borrowed your laptop." Sherlock whispered in John's ear.

John would have laughed if he had still been able to. Sherlock was lifting up, rolling John under him, chest down on the bed. John didn't want to stop his ministrations, but Sherlock was insistent. John went, and gasped as Sherlock jerked on his hips, lifting them briefly off the bed before he stuffed a pillow under him. His fingers grasped John's cock, stroking him several times before pulling his hand away, letting John rest on the folded up pillow.

John was breathing fast, nerves beginning to show. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to hurt him, that men did this every day to each other, and that men did it to women too. But he kept crashing into the thought that _Sherlock was about to fuck him, and he really, really wanted him too. _John's fists grabbed at the sheets, and he buried his face in his pillow. Sherlock's were grasping his hips, stroking his buttocks, fingers dipping into his ass, John's body accepting them easier each time. Again and again Sherlock would slip his long fingers in, stretch John's ass a bit more each time, before pulling them out all the way, just to push them back in. John was moaning in time with his lover's fingers, and he didn't pay any attention to the fact that Sherlock was moving up behind him, pushing his knees together. Sherlock pulled away his hand, and straddled John's legs, and leaned over his doctor, pushing his erection along the crack of his ass, pressing his chest to John's back. He bent down to bite the back of John's neck. John jumped, the bite not too hard, but he reveled in it, the feelings Sherlock was bringing out of him.

Sherlock whispered in John's ear, "Are you sure?" John groaned, impatient, and lifted his hips back into Sherlock's. "Dammit, yes!" John gasped into the mattress, heat washing over him, his nerves ready to collapse under the strain.

Sherlock lifted away, and John whimpered quietly, fearing Sherlock had changed his mind, that he wasn't ready. He feared that up to the moment he felt a warm, wet finger slide back into his ass. _Dear God, he did his research! _John lost it, realizing Sherlock was spitting on his fingers, lubing John's ass. John groaned, long and continuous, eagerly lifting his hips as Sherlock positioned himself closer.

_Yes!_ The head of Sherlock's hard, thick cock was there at his ass, pushing. Sherlock must have spit on the head, as it went easily in that first inch. He was so large, so much bigger than the fingers he had been worked with, that John tensed around him. Sherlock stopped, holding himself still, supporting his weight on one arm on the bed, the other on John's hip. The pressure was so strong; John felt the first twinge of pain. He shivered, wanting more, but he felt nervous, knowing it would hurt, afraid.

Sherlock pulled back, almost withdrawing totally, before working back in, going just a bit farther. John fought to relax, Sherlock rubbing his hip, soothing. He pushed, stretching John's ass, the pain feeling almost as good as the tension inside. Sherlock kept rubbing him, his warm hand distracting just enough, as he pulled out. Sherlock spit again, wetting the head of his cock. He swiftly plunged it back into John's ass, and John moaned loudly, pleasure and pain mixing until he couldn't tell them apart.

Sherlock seated himself fully, John impaled on his hard length. John was panting and whimpering, hands raking at the sheets, the sensation so new and overpowering John was damn near sobbing. Sherlock groaned. The tight heat of John wrapped around his cock was making him want to explode. All he wanted to do was plunge away, to ride his doctor until he came. This was madness, his control barely intact. Sherlock felt a stirring in the depths of his being, fire and need and a sensation so unfamiliar he had no name for it.

Sherlock pulled himself back from the edge, knowing he had to keep control, lest he hurt John. He wanted John, wanted him beneath him, but wanted John to enjoy himself too. So Sherlock held back his urges, and let his control take over. John was relaxing slightly beneath him, Sherlock's cock still lodged as deep as it could go. Sherlock pulled back, very slowly, one long inch at a time, before rocking his hips, and going back in. Slow and sure, no hesitation. This man beneath him his whole world. His only focus, the tight hot wet grip of John's body on his cock. Sherlock let his eyes drift shut, his head fall back, and he lifted himself up so he put his weight fully on his knees, and the man under him.

Sherlock's weight wasn't minor, but John took it easily. His cock was moving in a deep rhythm, and John felt a glorious sensation as the head swiped across the most sensitive spot of his body. John knew in some distant part of his brain that Sherlock had found his prostrate, and from the angle Sherlock was fucking him, he knew it too. John cried out at each thrust, each drag of his cock pulling out. His body was fully acclimated to Sherlock's cock, yet still tight and hot, and John gripped him instinctively each time he pulled out.

"Harder!" John managed to whimper, teeth clenched, groans being pulled from him with every thrust of Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock obliged him, and grabbed his hips tightly, pushing him down, and fucked him. Hard. Rode him without restraint. They both started to cry out together, bodies in perfect sync, Sherlock's tempo making John come part at the seams. Sherlock rode his doctor at a relentless pace, a primal urge to satisfy and dominate all at once ripping his control to shreds.

John was getting close to his climax, Sherlock driving him mercilessly. Sherlock had managed to work himself in deeper, John's body accepting him, pulling him in. Sherlock felt John begin to tighten up, clench around his length like a fist. He was bucking back against Sherlock's thrusts, their matched tempo failing as Sherlock drove John over the edge. John screamed, long and ragged, the sound hurting his throat. He screamed and screamed, pulling air in to just yell it back out into the mattress.

Sherlock thrust until John stopped screaming. He was close, and John's body was relaxing, his ass engulfing Sherlock completely. Sherlock watched as his cock was swallowed up, each time he pulled it out, absorbed and fascinated.

His own orgasm caught him by surprise, blasting from his core, more subtle than his first, but far more powerful. He screamed, long and deep, as he came inside John, great gushing spurts. He couldn't move, his body wracked by spasms, fingers digging into John's hips. Sherlock collapsed as his body refused to obey him, his full weight landing on John.

Neither could breathe all that well, bodies incapable of pulling in enough oxygen. Sherlock knew he should get up, but he couldn't. Nothing, muscles gone. He couldn't even feel his own body anymore. They laid like that for a long time, just trying to survive.

John moved, an arm moving out from under him, and he pushed up. Sherlock appeared to be dead, or at least he was doing an excellent impression of a dead person. John fell back down, laughing.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Mmmmm." Mumbled answer, no movement.

"Sherlock, I love you, I really do, but I can't breathe." John tried again.

Sherlock made an effort, he really did, but all he could handle was a shift in his weight.

"Oh no sir, you are not falling asleep on top of me! Off you go!" John pushed, and rolled Sherlock in towards the center of the bed. Sherlock fell off of him, withdrawing as he went, making John gasp in surprise. _Oh that's going to hurt later, I know it… So worth it…._

Sherlock managed to lift a hand, and pulled John down to him, who snagged the blankets, covering them both.

"I love you too." Sherlock whispered in his ear, before sleep claimed them.


	22. Chapter 22 The Palace

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. Enjoy! There shall be more intrigue, drama, and love to come!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Two**

"_**The Palace"**_

They stayed there, in that bed, for what felt like forever. They didn't care that Mrs. Hudson came and knocked at the door a few times. Nor did they care that Mycroft came over, and sat in the front room for an hour, glaring at the bedroom door. Sometime about midnight they snuck out, running to the bathroom, and John raided the pantry for some snacks, before dashing back into the bedroom, and each other's arms.

John convinced Sherlock to show him what else he researched while borrowing John's laptop. Sherlock had lost all hesitancy, eager to please his doctor, his enjoyment so thorough John struggled to keep up. John relished the chance to be with his detective, just the two of them, their only focus each other. For two years they had been separated. John lost to grief and calmly accepting a less than perfect future; and Sherlock, alone, needing his anchor, his John, as the missions consumed him, wearing away at all the bright places John had brought to life in his soul.

John groaned, utterly spent, as Sherlock kissed his way back up his stomach, coming out from under the covers.

"I think I might die if we keep going." He panted, throwing an arm over his face, every inch of him emptied of energy. Sherlock threw himself next to John, resting his head on John's shoulder. His doctor's heart was racing, muscles lax. John dropped his arm, hugging Sherlock to him. "You really are good at everything, aren't you?"

"As far as I know, yes." Sherlock grunted as John poked him in the ribs. John wanted to laugh, but he could barely manage a chuckle.

Sherlock had no idea what time it was, the mobiles were still off, and it was dark out. It had been late afternoon or so when they had managed to get home, and escaping Mrs. Hudson had taken longer than Sherlock had liked. And then once he had John alone, Sherlock couldn't pretend to care about the rest of the world. Every touch, caress, kiss had fed the fire, and there was nothing else but John. Sherlock found himself wanting more, the heat from John's skin impossible to resist. Sherlock was exhausted, and he knew John was even more so. Sherlock's time abroad had given him far more stamina than his doctor had.

Sherlock looked at John, who was valiantly trying to stay awake. They'd caught some sleep in the afterglow of sex, but it had never lasted more than hour before one would be waking the other with curious hands and hot wet kisses in tantalizing places.

Sherlock's mind was clear, far clearer than it had ever been. Every sense primed, and his thoughts crystalline in their clarity. The light from the one small lamp in the corner seemed more real, and the sheets of the bed unbelievably smooth and cool under his hot skin. Sherlock just lay on John's shoulder, and watched as his doctor lost the fight and fell asleep. Sherlock let him, as his eyes traced the lines of the face he knew better than his own. The scent and texture of his skin, his body heat, the sound of his breathing; all of it Sherlock catalogued, analyzed, filed away inside his memories.

Sherlock ushered the memories down into his mind palace, walking them to their rightful place. Sherlock contemplated the place he usually kept John; the red chair Sherlock had designated as his the first time John sat in it. It didn't seem to fit anymore, his eyes kept wandering away from the chair and down the hall to the bedroom. Sherlock's eyes were still open, and he had that faraway look he'd get when deep inside his mind palace. He had an overlay of sensory input, his eyes seeing John as he really was in that moment, and the creation of Sherlock's visual memory of John in the palace bedroom. There Sherlock built John into a new reality, and anchored it permanently in place. As soon as he did, Sherlock felt a rush of endorphins, a flash of satisfaction. It resonated through his core, and every street, building, room and dim alleyway of his mind palace trembled. Sherlock closed his eyes, and let his city settle.

Usually such a reaction only occurred after a serious dose of narcotics, and never to such a degree. Sherlock contemplated his mind's reaction to his realignment of John's permanent place in his mind palace. John had been everywhere in his palace when Sherlock was gone; upon his return, and the change in their relationship, John had settled back into the palace flat. Sherlock knew it was because he hadn't needed the false comfort of cold memory anymore to survive, he had the real John. And now his mind reacted to John's presence as if he were a drug. Sherlock used to get high when he hadn't a case; then, once John entered his life, only when the stagnation of his mind became overwhelming. John had saved him from the extreme of addiction, merely by being in his life. John was his new addiction. Sherlock knew his attachment to John was serious, so serious it was beyond normal. But he had never cared much for what was considered normal. He hadn't exaggerated when he told John that his very cells were built around him. Sherlock Holmes could not exist anymore without John Watson.

Sherlock withdrew from his palace, eyes opening. He could usually send his body into a state of deep relaxation if he was in a secure place. He had habitually done so this time, and he felt like he'd gotten hours of sleep. John was still sleeping next to him in the same place Sherlock had arranged his image, inside the mind palace. Sherlock let him sleep, watching over him as the night faded away, and a new dawn lit the sky.

* * *

Mary watched the sun rise over the Thames, the view from her borrowed room spectacular. The river was a ribbon of liquid gold in the dawn light, streaking out towards the sea. She had been in this country for almost six years, and she had never seen the river look so beautiful.

Glad that some part of her morning was going well, Mary felt her stomach heave again, and she sprinted for the bathroom. She and Death had orchestrated a grand night of drinking and dancing, and in the chaos of the club, they had slipped out the back, and into a new car. Mary had helped the woman the world thought of as Sybil Moran vanish. Mary had spotted the Level Three surveillance team from the moment they left the Moran Manor house earlier in the evening. Mary knew that they had no idea who she was, but it was only a matter of time before they ran her identity. She wondered who would be more confused, MI6 in trying to connect a traitor's wife to the ex-fiancé of Dr. Watson, or John and Sherlock trying to connect Mary to a socialite with an urge to party. Their respective paths had never met in their current lives, and a part of her wished to be a fly on the wall when MI6 and Holmes pieced it all together. If they even could.

Mary knelt on the cool floor next to the toilet, wishing she hadn't drunk so many martinis trying to keep up the party girl image. Her head was pounding, and she knew she was dehydrated. She hadn't imbibed like that since she was a teenager. Death had knocked her's back like they were water. Which, now that she thought about it, most likely had been. She had been planning her disappearing act for several days, so she probably had the bartenders paid off. Mary hadn't cared; considering her week, she needed to blow off some steam. She couldn't go around killing clubbers, though she had been tempted several times when a persistent few hadn't clued into the fact _that she wasn't interested in a private party._

Her stomach was settling back to normal, and she stood to rinse her mouth in the sink. _I'm not doing that again for a while!_

A knock came at the bedroom door, and she padded over to it, her bare feet soundless on the wood floors. This was Death's safe house, but Mary took nothing for granted, coming up along the wall next to the door, listening.

"Mary." It was Death.

Mary opened the door, revealing her hostess holding a tray, with a tiny dish with two white pills in it and a large bottle of water. Mary grinned at her, and waved her over the threshold.

"Mind reading a new talent?" Mary asked, smiling thanks as she took the tray. Death laughed, walking over to the window, looking out at the river. The sun had risen enough that the river no longer glowed, and the light had filled the room. Mary quickly downed the aspirin, chugging the water. She was determined not to let her hangover last any longer than it had too.

"Any plans, Mary?" Death asked, still looking outside. The grounds of the house they were in stretched out in a vast green sea, all the way down to the river. There was a boathouse on the river bank, large enough to hold a decent sized boat. The house was an hour or so outside of London, somewhere on the north shore. Mary hadn't seen much of it the night before after they slipped unseen from the club. All she could tell is that the grounds were vast, the house was old, and until recently, unoccupied. The land and manor were well-tended, but the furniture was shrouded, and there were no signs of habitation. No pictures on the white walls, no scuffs on the hardwood floors from the passage of people, and sound echoed eerily through the halls.

"Plans?" Mary asked, standing next to Death, both women staring out to the river. Neither spoke for minute, their thoughts elsewhere.

"Your cover as Mary Morstan is blown. Magnussen has sold your current identity for information on a higher priority target. He has watched you since Sherlock Holmes returned from his hiatus on the Continent. It was he who tried to burn Dr. Watson alive, to see if Sherlock Holmes had vulnerability. He does, as it turns out. Though once your engagement to Dr. Watson was over, he apparently no longer needed leverage on you, and sold you for leverage on someone else." Death paused, and faced Mary, less than a foot between them. Her voice went low, urgent. "I can keep you hidden here, but only here. If you leave, I cannot guarantee your safety. You cannot lead them back here, not until my mission is complete. Once MI6 learns that the wife of a traitor has gone missing, the hunt will be on. Everyone shall be looking for me soon, and they saw us together at the club."

Mary looked Death in the eye, the younger woman slightly taller, and her gaze was direct as her words. Mary had no idea where this side of Death had hidden all these years; she had never, ever shown concern for anyone or anything before. Mary knew better than to assume it was affection, but it was close enough to make her heart tremble. If anyone was to ever garner the affection of this creature before her, Mary would hate to see the depths she would go for that lucky soul.

"Do you know who he's told, the ones responsible for the other morning?" Mary asked, and she saw Death nod.

"They were hired by the CIA. Seems they wanted you taken care of for certain this time. There has been no further chatter about them hiring more, or sending agents. The police know exactly what happened, thanks to Sherlock Holmes. No one knows about me, as of yet. And no one is actively looking for you. Not even your former masters. They appear to be reevaluating their plans."

"Why are you helping me?" Mary had to know. Death smiled, and Mary was astonished to see a hint of tears gather in the younger woman's eyes.

"I know what it's like to lose someone to Sherlock Holmes." Death smiled one last time, and there was a touch of that wild creature in her eyes as she looked away. She began to leave, walking slowly to the door. "I understand the pain of that lost love."

Mary was in shock. She could only stare in wonder. Someone had indeed caught the heart of Death. And Sherlock Holmes had broken it. She had to ask, there was no way she could stop the question, and it came unbidden from her lips.

"Who did you lose?" her question was quiet, yet the whisper seemed to echo through the room. Death stopped at the doorway, and looked back over her shoulder.

"His name was James." Mary's heart froze at that name, a chill wind blowing across her soul. Death nodded at the comprehension on Mary's face. "James Moriarty."

She left, her voice echoing down the hall. "I'll be downstairs once you decide on your plans, take your time."

No matter the amount of trouble Mary had been in for over twenty years, she knew none of it compared to the nightmare she found herself in now. _I should have taken my chances on the hit squad in the park! She loved James Moriarty. And from what John told me, it's entirely possible he loved her in return. She's his type: anarchy and madness. This is all madness!_

* * *

"I'm dreading tuning it on."

"Why?"

"I don't want to see the sarcastic texts from your brother."

"Then don't turn it on."

"I need my mobile, Sherlock!"

John tried not to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, and went back to preening in the mirror. They'd gotten up only thirty minutes earlier, and it was damn near lunch time. Mrs. Hudson had left tea sometime that morning, but it was long cold, and John was starving. Having spent far too much time in the shower (John grinned at that memory), and now waiting on Sherlock to quit his visage in the mirror was making John antsy.

"Hurry up, you know you're gorgeous, I'm starving!" John groused, finally giving in and turning his mobile back on. Sherlock had turned his mobile back on as soon as he got dressed, thumbing through his messages so fast John was certain he hadn't read any of them. Of course John wouldn't be surprised if he had.

His mobile began to chime incessantly, alert after alert going off. Mercifully, not all of them were from Mycroft, though the majority was. John just sighed, and let them sit in the Inbox unread.

"You think I'm gorgeous?" Sherlock was staring at him in the mirror, the oddest look on his face.

"Well, yes." John was confused; surely Sherlock knew just how striking he was? That crazy head of downy soft curls, fair skin and breathtaking eyes, how could he not be gorgeous?

"Huh. Always thought I looked weird but alright." Sherlock shrugged, and darted out of the bathroom, heading for the front. Sherlock grabbed his coat, snagging John's as he went by it.

"Hurry up John!"

John just sighed, and followed his love out of the flat and down the stairs. Sherlock tossed him his coat at the bottom of the stairs.

John ran into Sherlock's back, the detective stopped, his hand raised to open the outer door. The inner door closed, dropping the light level and making John look up at Sherlock. The detective turned to him, damn near invisible in the shadows.

"Sherlock?" John couldn't see his face, but he felt Sherlock shift closer to him, arms spanning around his waist, under his jacket. John tipped his head back, expecting a kiss. He got his kiss, Sherlock's lips capturing his, long arms tight around John's waist, holding him close. John gave up thinking for feeling, enjoying the firm strong lips crushing his. John dropped his coat to the floor. Sherlock moved forward, pushing John up against the wall, as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock took the kiss deeper, tongue demanding entrance. John sighed, letting Sherlock's tongue in, running his fingers through the detective's riotous curls. For a man who didn't know how to kiss a week earlier, his skill level was amazing. Sherlock had surpassed his tutor and become a master.

Sherlock lifted his lips, and John sensed more than saw the smile Sherlock gave him. John jumped, as Sherlock's hands twisted behind his back, pulling on his waistband.

"Sherlock! What…!" Suddenly there was a new weight on his belt, and Sherlock's hands withdrew slowly, fingers trailing along his hips before lifting away. John put a hand back, and felt his gun in its holster, snug at the small of his back. John had forgotten where it was, had left it in his coat.

Sherlock chuckled, deep voice filling the small space. He pulled away, and reached for the door. John just stood there for a minute, bemused. John nearly forgot to pick up his coat from the floor.

"Cheeky bugger." John growled, following Sherlock out the door, blinking at the sudden light. There was a black Jaguar purring at the curb, with a most aggravating, beautiful woman and her Blackberry too.

"Hello." Anthea smiled at them absently, clicking away at her mobile. She popped the rear door, and vaguely motioned at them to get in.

John grumbled under his breath, plans for food and relaxation evaporating. Sherlock tossed him an exasperated look, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the car.

"Anthea, do remind my dear brother that John needs to eat sometime soon. He gets a bit cranky when hungry." Sherlock tugged John into the back seat, reaching over him to close the door as Anthea clicked away at her mobile. She slid in the front, and the driver pulled them out into traffic.

The drive to Mycroft's London residence was quick, John simmering the way there. Sherlock just sat in silence, watching the city flash by the windows. Sherlock had known Mycroft wouldn't wait long. Once there were signs again of life beyond the bedroom he would have sent his car for Sherlock. Them, now. Sherlock had made John a promise; he would hold nothing back from John Watson again. And that meant that John would get the same level of clearance that Sherlock had.

John had never been to Mycroft's townhouse. He looked up at the front of it, all classic lines and white columns. There was no decoration, just a black wood and iron door that opened into a foyer that could have been cut from a single piece of grey marble. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, he took a hallway that swept out from the right, and went on for a long distance, towards the rear of the house. John followed, hands in his pockets, curious despite his aggravation. The rooms they passed were either closed up behind thick wood doors, or were so barren of personalization that they could have been museum settings. Sherlock kept walking, and the hall took a hairpin turn, spinning back towards the center of the house and down. The stairs were quiet, their steps loud echoing off the close interior walls.

Sherlock stopped at a large door, a strange LCD screen on the wall, little red lights blinking around the edge. Sherlock placed his hand flat on the screen, and John watched as a thin horizontal line of light swiped down Sherlock's hand, and back up. Sherlock pulled his hand away, and the image of his hand print remained in green on the screen. The red lights switched to a cheerfully green light, and chirped twice. The door opened of its own accord, sliding soundlessly on massive hinges. Sherlock motioned for John to proceed before him, and John swallowed once before stepping in.

The room itself was massive. Lines of computers, large display screens, and a dizzying collection of electronic equipment graced the upper terrace of the room, and a low set of stairs dropped to the lower level halfway across the space. John was shocked. The room was easily the size of the entire house above it, and the walls were a grey stone looking material that reminded John of old missile bunkers. John was impressed; apparently Mycroft took the whole MI6 role to a level James Bond would envy.

They weren't alone in the room. Mycroft stood next to the stairs, looking down to the next level. There were a dozen people in the room, their outfits all very similar. Same dark suits, white shirts, and carefully neutral expressions. John pegged them immediately for MI6; that look must be taught to all first year trainees. They either sat huddled over terminals, scanning through some form of information, or talking to each other in little groups, being careful not to attract attention to themselves. Their attitude clearly communicated that they were merely accessories to the elder Mr. Holmes, to be noticed only when needed.

Sherlock nudged John's shoulder, looking down at his doctor, one brow raised. John shook himself out of his surprise, and followed behind Sherlock as he walked up to his brother.

"I trust your sabbatical has left you in a more cooperative mood?" Mycroft asked, not turning to look at his guests. Sherlock stood at his shoulder, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"Remarkably refreshed, brother dear. I'd recommend you try it, but I know how you feel about such things. And my mood is ever much the same, thank you." John smirked at the snark in Sherlock's tone, knowing Sherlock was just needling at Mycroft.

John looked about the room, his attention snagged by the lower level. He went around Sherlock, and stood at the railing that separated the levels. The lower level was a flat, open expanse, over a dozen meters wide, and the ceiling was high, all the way up to the higher level's ceiling. Strange lights glimmered in the shadows, and from the corners. John was puzzled, the lower level looked for all the world like the dance floor at a club, sans fake smoke and sweaty clubbers. The walls were all lined in what looked like thick sheets of glass, and the floor glittered darkly, like black sand was shining back at them.

John turned to Sherlock, his curiosity urging him to ask. He was surprised into silence. Sherlock was removing his coat, and his suit jacket, laying them over the railing next to John. He was wearing a snowy white shirt again, and the lights seemed to fluoresce strongly over the bright shirt. One of the agents had come over, holding a thin black box out to Sherlock. Sherlock lifted the lid, and John peered around his shoulder, at what looked like two silver bracelets, and an earpiece for a mobile. Confused, John watched as Sherlock locked the bracelets around his wrists, and little lights glowed out from inside the rings of metal. Sherlock turned on the earpiece, putting it to his ear, hiding it under his curls. The agent wordlessly retreated, sitting at a control panel of some sorts, with lots of screens. The agent touched a few buttons, and a deep humming noise reverberated through the large space, like generators of some kind had just powered on. The noise was subtle, but noticeable.

John was truly lost now, and he turned to catch Sherlock looking at him with a smug expression. Sherlock winked, and then fluidly walked down the stairs to the level below. John made to follow, but Mycroft moved to stop him, hand raised.

"Stay here, Dr. Watson." Mycroft didn't even look at him, just nodded for John to watch Sherlock instead.

John turned his gaze back to his lover, and watched in amazement. Every step Sherlock took across the strange floor made lights shoot out from all areas of the lower level, a mix of blues, greens, reds, and silvery white. _Lasers?_ The lights weren't shooting randomly, they collected together at the bracelets on Sherlock's wrists, as if he held light under his command. Sherlock walked with the lights, their colors blending intensely at his wrists. He stopped in the center of the room, facing the far wall.

"Please access the Lazarus Project." It was Sherlock's voice, but it was being piped out from hidden speakers in the room, echoing slightly. John shivered, and leaned his arms on the railing, absorbed completely. Sherlock's voice was always deep and slightly ominous, but hearing it echo throughout the great stone bunker made him sound inhuman. It was as if they were all standing in a dragon's cave, the beast about to breathe fire from the depths.

The agent at the control panel typed in a command, and suddenly Sherlock lifted his hands, up and out from his sides. The lasers took this as an order of some kind, and hundreds of them changed angles, blending and bleeding together to create images. John drew in breath, and he realized finally what he was seeing. Sherlock was standing on a giant holographic projection field, something straight out of a science fiction novel. He moved his hands, and images separated, lining up in the air before him, like he was conducting a symphony of light instead of music. John watched, and he felt like he had seen Sherlock do something like this before, a nagging sense of déjà vu.

Great floating panels of pictures, files, even videos that played automatically, all hung in the air, spun from light. Sherlock waved a hand, and they all froze, and he turned to another clear space of air, moving his hands again in a vaguely familiar way. Up, to the side, his fingers plucking files from folders, dropping them to open in the air, information spilled out in great swaths of light. The bracelets seemed to be translating his movements to the computers, which in turn sent the information Sherlock wanted back to the lasers, and they created the information in the air before him. Sherlock continued on, until the entire lower level was alive with light. Sherlock stood calmly amongst it all, eyes assessing, tracking, searching among the information for something.

John was able to clearly see the files, the pictures, the videos. Sherlock snapped his fingers once, and all the light screens came alive, the videos playing, sound churning quietly in the background. He moved about the floor, walking calmly and sedately through the projected information, stopping briefly before moving on. John was close enough to see several files, and he stood up once he saw the dates. They were mission files, all dated while Sherlock was dead. Or at least pretending to be dead.

_These are all of Sherlock's missions, the ones he went on taking down Moriarty's network! Oh my God! _John read on, seeing the mastery before him. Sherlock had been ruthless, diabolical in his pursuit of the syndicate members. There was a video of Sherlock leading what looked like a tactical team into a decrepit warehouse buried in the woods; a list of agents Sherlock had summarily singled out for arrest or eradication. Sherlock hadn't paused for more than a few days in between one mission ending and the next beginning. The authorizing officer behind each mission was Mycroft. The status pictures of Sherlock as the months dragged on showed a man so far removed from the person John knew that his heart ached. Sherlock had been weathered by the harshness of his reality, alone, and doing work of absolute necessity.

He didn't even recognize Sherlock in some of the footage either. His hair had been brushed back from his face, eyes tired, glittering brightly, hard as diamonds. He was in tactical gear in the majority of shots, a gun in hand, the weapon and gear so foreign to John's mental image of Sherlock he had to force himself to look again, to make sure it really was his detective.

There was one picture, one that made John clench his jaw, and shoot a murderous look at Mycroft. It was recent from the dates, and taken several days before Sherlock's return to London. He was clearly in some form of medical facility, dirty, bloody, and ill-kept. He was naked but for a pair of rough spun trousers, no socks, and leaning with his hands braced on a table as someone wiped down his back. It was his back and sides that made John furious. Broken skin, huge bruises, and from the way Sherlock was holding himself, he had a few fractured ribs. His wrists were bruised, as if he had been restrained. He had been beaten, severely. John saw red, and advanced on Mycroft. He had no control over his actions, and he was going to destroy Mycroft for putting his detective through something like that.

Mycroft saw him coming, alarm making him drop that snarky look he usually wore. John was only a couple of feet from him, fist raised, aiming at his nose, when a pair of strong arms caught him back. John growled, determined to beat Mycroft down to a similar state Sherlock had been in.

"John, I'm fine now. John, it's okay." Sherlock spoke into his ear, arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him back, tight to his chest. Sherlock dragged him back, and John lifted his arms to grab at Sherlock's wrists. He pulled in a deep breath of cool air, and let Sherlock soothe him. John didn't drop his eyes from Mycroft's face, letting the older man see his rage. Mycroft's expression was a mix of alarm and surprise, as if he were confused about why John had reacted so strongly to the picture. Mycroft's eyes flickered to the picture in question, and he grimaced. John had seen Sherlock's state, and correctly assumed that it was Mycroft's fault. The brief flash of what could have been guilt glimmered in the older man's eyes, and John relied on Sherlock to hold him back. Mycroft's' face just confirmed it for him, and John found himself actually hating Mycroft in that brief second.

Sherlock tightened his grip, and dragged John down the stairs to the holo-floor. John let him, not willing to find himself in lockup for beating the snot out of the most powerful man in the British Government. Sherlock kissed his neck, and started laughing quietly in his ear.

"If only we knew each other growing up, my dear doctor. Somehow I think my childhood would've been far more enjoyable." John turned in Sherlock's arms, and put his hand to Sherlock's ribs, were the worst of the bruises had once been. He pushed, hard, and caught a faint flicker of unease in his lovers' eyes.

"Christ, Sherlock! Broken ribs? Why the hell didn't you tell me? Those take a minimum of six weeks to heal! And from the way we've been running around the last two weeks, it's a wonder they even got to heal this much! Obviously the bruising is gone, but the ribs! You should have said something!" John was mad, and wasn't afraid to show it. Though he was far angrier with the elder Holmes.

Sherlock looked slightly sheepish, but leaned down to kiss John firmly on the lips. "I am fine now, they just ache once in a while, nothing to worry about. And I love you very much." Sherlock grinned at him, and John relaxed enough at the beseeching face of his love to kiss him back. Sherlock kissed him until the tension eased from John's shoulders, and he reached up to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck. His kiss soothed John, until a new tension made John blush, and duck his head to Sherlock's shoulder.

"We really shouldn't make out in front of half of MI6 and your big brother." John grinned, his arms still around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock hugged him, and kissed his temple.

"I don't know, it may do them so good." Sherlock replied, chuckling. Sherlock leaned back, and caught John's eye. "Better now? You aren't going to make me explain to my mother why my lover beat up my older brother?"

John laughed, and shook his head. "I'm fine now, sorry. Back to work, you." John let go of Sherlock, and turned to go back to the stairs. Sherlock stopped him, and instead pulled him to a small flat space in the center of the room, making him stand directly on it.

"If you stand here, you won't interfere, and the lasers will work around you. Stay and watch with me, see if you spot something I missed." Sherlock kissed him on the brow, and went back out to the floor, his hands reactivating the light show. John watched, pleased that Sherlock had included him.

John cast a glance back up to Mycroft, who was standing at the railing like nothing had happened. He was talking to two of his people, who were showing him something on a tablet, most likely a video. John shrugged, and went back to watching Sherlock.

Sherlock had resumed his walk, eyeing each file, each video thoroughly before moving on to the next. John watched him, his hands, and how he looked. John was closer to him now, and his actions made a light go off in John's brain. _This is how he moves when he's in his mind palace! This is a real world version of Sherlock's mind!_ John felt a sense of awe, and he felt incredibly touched to be included in this, no matter how little he felt he was contributing to Sherlock's research. He watched Sherlock, beyond content. He was seeing a very small part of what Sherlock was capable of, and he treasured the gift his detective gave him.

John looked back at the picture of the beaten and bloody detective, and he must have made a face, because suddenly Sherlock was at his shoulder, and with a wave of his elegant hands, the entire file was right in front of them. Sherlock minimized the picture, and expanded the file itself. John read along, seeing that it had been Sherlock's last mission before he came home. He had infiltrated the compound of a man named Baron Maupertuis, a weapons dealer and arms trafficker in Serbia. John looked at the list of weapons the man had dealt in, and it wasn't until he got to the bottom that John put his hand out, stilling Sherlock as he was about to wave it away. Sherlock looked at him, one brow raised in question.

"Sherlock, what was the type of incendiary used at Blackwood?" John asked, eyes intent on the list, excitement curling in his stomach.

"A mixture primarily composed of Triethylaluminium, a pyrophoric material. I sent the lab results here the other morning." Sherlock waved his hand, and there was a small screen pulled up next to the weapons list, and Sherlock scrolled down it until he found his data packet, opening it and asking the computers to compare the weapons on the list to the residual evidence at the crime scene.

It took less than ten seconds for a _beep _to echo through the vast space, and the chemical signatures of the evidence and the confiscated weapons flashed green. A perfect match. Sherlock broke out into a wide grin, grabbing John and spinning them both around in a dizzying circle.

"John! Invaluable as always!" Sherlock waved his hands, and in a split second, all of the screens of light fell away, but for the ones they were actively using. "Mycroft! John has found something!"

Mycroft looked up from his tablet, handing it back to one of his aides, before descending the short flight of stairs to where John and Sherlock stood. John moved over, letting the other Holmes stand in front of the screens too.

"A perfect match, in composition. The type of weapons used at Blackwood are indeed the same type of weapons we seized at the Baron's compound." Mycroft paused, and he reached out, trying to touch the screen that held the weapons list. "Sherlock, see if you can't find the Baron's shipping lists, the ones that catalogue the weapons as he received them."

Sherlock waved a hand, fingers darting out into the light, plucking a manifest from thin air, and expanded it out for them to see. Mycroft traced the list down, and just before he got to the incendiaries, Sherlock gasped. "They don't match! There were more weapons received than were seized! He didn't sell them either. Some are missing."

John watched, as Sherlock pulled out the entirety of the mission files, flinging them out into the air. They spun, settling, as Sherlock flipped through them all at lightning speed. He was literally tearing through air, looking for the source of the discrepancy.

"I can't see where it happened." Sherlock groused, scanning the images. "The Baron received thirty crates, MI6 seized twenty. Must have happened when I wasn't around to see. It was after you pulled me out, sent me home."

John was thinking hard, and he stared at the manifests. Something didn't seem right. Weapons of this caliber didn't just disappear, and yet they had. So he reached out his hand, and tried tapping at the light.

"Sherlock? Where did they come from originally? The weapons? Before the Baron got them?"

"They were from ….. " Sherlock tapped at the light, and the screen promptly responded. "A shipment was hijacked several years ago, by black market dealers. They were then bought by the North Koreans, but for some reason never made it to that country. They got redirected to Eastern Europe."

"So the Baron could have been holding them for someone? He procured them for the North Koreans, and let them sit there? Instead of shipping them to the people who bought them?"

"That's appears to be what happened yes. Though it doesn't explain where they are now." Sherlock responded, fingers under his chin, the bracelets glowing against his white shirt.

"Are you sure? Who did we just stop from destroying Parliament, who also worked for the North Koreans?" John asked, feeling like he just pulled off a magic trick. Sherlock dropped his hands, and looked to John, surprise evident on his face. Mycroft turned to the doctor as well, and smiled slightly.

Sherlock turned back to the screens, muttering something about "coincidences and the universe." Mycroft followed along, as Sherlock pulled up the evidence lists from the Underground Bombing attempt the previous week. He scrolled through them, and stopped on the identifiers, the manufacturer's codes printed on the blocks of explosives. He tapped those, and had the computer compare the tracking numbers to the weapons found at the Baron's compound. Another happy _beep _went off, and the matching codes lit up in green.

"Made by the same company, and were part of the same original shipment that got hijacked." That was Mycroft, satisfaction thick in his voice. He snapped his fingers, and one of his aides ran down the stairs to them.

"Sir?"

"We will need to see Lord Moran as soon as possible please. Have Anthea arrange our visit." The agent nodded before scampering away, heading to the back of the room where Anthea stood. "It's obvious he has some connection to this disciple, whether he supplied the weapons, or he knew of their existence."

Sherlock waved his hands once more, dropping them in finality as the lights dimmed, the screens flickering out, and the humming in the background stopped. John felt like his ears needed to pop. Sherlock unclasped the bracelets, tossing them in his hands as they all walked back up to the top level.

"Why wasn't this noticed before? The connection?" Sherlock mused, mostly to himself. He dropped the bracelets back into the waiting box, pulling the earpiece back out from under his hair. He dropped that in as well, and clicked the lid shut.

"We weren't present as the evidence was catalogued, brother dear. That was left to lesser mortals." Mycroft walked off, as one of his aides waved for his attention.

John grimaced at his retreating back, glad he couldn't see. Sherlock was lost in thought. At least John assumed he was, until Sherlock reached out, and pulled John under his arm.

"How do you always do that?" Sherlock mused, his breath blowing into John's ear, making him grin.

"Do what?" John asked, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist, enjoying the tickling on his ear and neck.

"Illuminate the obvious." Sherlock dodged John's fist as it lightly jabbed at his side. John was just playing, very aware of the detective's ribs.

"I happen to think it's a special talent, otherwise all the smart people of the world would still be looking for a clue." John said, all serious. Sherlock chuckled, and the sound made John's knees get all weak. _I will never tire of that laugh!_

There was a small commotion from one of the terminals, and Anthea was practically running to Mycroft's side. She pulled on his sleeve, whispering in his ear. Mycroft's head rose up in surprise, disbelief clear on his face. John and Sherlock took note, Sherlock grabbing at his coat and jacket, and they met Mycroft halfway.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, pulling his outer garments back on.

"Lord Sebastian Moran is dead, he died less than an hour ago."


	23. Violet and the Snipers

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Warning: Swearing! **

**Enjoy, review! Read on, fellow fans!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Three**

"_**Violet and the Snipers"**_

"Have you decided then? What you want to do?" Death asked, as Mary stepped into the ballroom. Her voice echoed in the large space, brightly lit by the morning sun. Golden wood and white drapes complimented the airy environment of the ballroom, and the room had an aura of welcome to it.

The room was shrouded, like the rest of the house, with large plank tables oddly out of place in the elegant space. The rough wood tables held an assortment of gear, crates, and large boxes underneath them. One of the tables held several computers, and several types of communications equipment. Weapons lined up along the top of the nearest table, in neat rows that spoke of long association with weapons. Death sat on a bench at the halfway point of the table in the middle, cleaning a disassembled pistol. She wielded the tiny brush with precision, making certain to get all the tiny nooks and crannies.

Mary walked down the center table, idly glancing at the items arranged on it. She stopped at a familiar sight. It was her personal weapons case, the one she had left at the house two days ago, when she had gone flat hunting. Beside it was the bags she had packed, in preparation for leaving the house she had shared with John. Her heart gave a tiny leap, and she shuttered away the pain before it could overwhelm her.

Mary tugged one open, smiling as she saw her clothing and personal items.

"Thank you for this." Mary waved a hand at her belongings, and walked the rest of the way down, sitting on the bench next to Death. She sat with her back to the table, leaning on its edge, legs stretched out in front of her. "And I have some questions I need answered, before I decide."

"Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide. I'm betting you already guessed at my plans, as I gave you my motive earlier." Death kept cleaning the gun pieces, rubbing away at the slide with a cloth. She was relaxed, her attention locked on her task. Mary watched her, and then looked ahead to the far wall. There was a large square object under a white dust cover, about ten feet tall and twelve feet wide. It came out from the wall another ten feet. It was a very large boxlike item, whatever it was.

"First, I know you asked me to help you disappear at the club last night to throw everyone off. I'm the distraction. Otherwise, you could have easily disappeared on your own, no help needed. I'm going to keep MI6 and Holmes busy, while you carry out your plans. Whether I help you or not from this point on, I've already served my purpose."

"Yes. I knew you'd figure it out. I didn't bother hiding my intentions. You could have said no." Death replied, her voice clear, no emotion. "And I'm really not trying to hide my identity, either. The only thing that must be hidden is where we are. My husband's imminent death will tell Sherlock who I am and give a fairly clear signal that I'm not messing around."

"I'm assuming you plan on getting revenge on Sherlock Holmes for the death of James Moriarty." Mary said, no judgment in her voice. Death nodded, and continued to clean the gun.

"Correct, keep going." Death said. Mary cast her a wary look, and figured she might as well ask.

"Do you plan to kill him?" Mary looked at Death, watching her face. There was no emotional response to Mary's question, as if she had calmly offered tea to the woman next to her.

"I do." Death said, her tone steady. There was no excuses, no skewed rationales. She knew what she was doing, and it bothered her not at all.

Mary turned back to the wall, and had a sudden urge to run up to the large object under the shroud, and yank it off, revealing what was hidden underneath. Mary quelled that urge, and thought about Sherlock dying at the hands of Death. She hadn't lied to John that night Sherlock returned, she did indeed like the detective. Or she had, until he took John, and made her life fall apart around her. She drew in a shaky breath, swallowing back the rage she felt, the hurt from her badly injured heart.

"I'm okay with that." Mary said, her pain coming out clearly in her voice. Death put down the piece she was cleaning, and finally looked at Mary. Her eyes were those of that wild creature she so resembled. Her face was impassive, in control. Mary struggled for control, determined not to lose it, not in front of her.

"Magnussen. He is going to keep selling me off to the highest bidder until one of them gets me. He knows my current identity, who I was before. He may have sold me out to the CIA, but there's far scarier people out there, people I don't want looking for me. He needs to be stopped, and I need a new name."

"I can help with that, easily. Shouldn't be an issue." Death made that guarantee casually, didn't even blink. Mary breathed out a sigh, and she hated herself for asking her next question. Mary tried to smile, her eyes broadcasting her heart ache to the other woman.

"What about John?" Mary asked, her voice breaking, much to her disgust. She bit her lip, and tried to hold back the tears. Death shifted, and the hand closest to Mary crept out to her, and wrapped around her upper arm. Death just squeezed, and gently held on.

"John Watson is a prominent part of my plan. Whether he lives or dies depends on Sherlock." Death told her, voice blunt, but there was shadow of something in it. Something close to compassion. Mary knew Death saw her rage, her hurt, the insult dealt to her heart and pride. Death squeezed again, and Mary found herself crying, tears flowing out uncalled. Never had she had such trouble controlling her emotions, and she felt weak letting them out now. Mary swiped at them, but she kept crying. She was suddenly wrapped up in the younger woman's arms, Death holding Mary's head to her shoulder.

"I will make them pay, Mary. For your sake and mine." Death whispered. Mary cried harder, and she found herself holding the other woman back, clinging to support from this unlikely source.

"Will you help me?" Death asked, and a gorgeous smile broke across her features as Mary nodded, still weeping in her arms. "This will all be over soon, I promise."

* * *

"Dead? What do you mean, dead?" John asked, disbelief obvious in his voice. Mycroft looked uncomfortable, and he smiled faintly.

"Cardiac arrest, or so the doctors at the prison are claiming." Mycroft replied.

"This is oddly inconvenient, isn't it? We just learn we need to speak to him, and he's dead?" Sherlock said, his eyes getting that distant look when he started thinking hard.

"I shall send the body to Bart's." Mycroft declared, and Anthea appeared like magic at his side. She didn't even need him to finish the sentence before she was clicking away at her mobile, presumably sending out instructions.

Sherlock took off, striding to the nearest computer station, rudely shooing the occupant out of his way. Sherlock took the chair, and he immediately began typing in commands.

John went to stand at his shoulder, Mycroft following. John watched as Sherlock accessed the prison's security feeds, the time logs, prisoner records.

"He was perfectly fine when he was first arrested, he was given a physical exam. The doctors cleared him, he had no obvious risk factors for heart disease. Nor any other disease for that matter." Sherlock paused, and looked up at John. "How likely is it that he would just drop dead of a heart attack when he was considered healthy?"

"Anyone can have a heart attack, truly. Even if you are perfectly healthy. Embolism, undiscovered heart defects, injury, toxins, poisons, excessive stress, fear. Seriously, that's what a post-mortem is for." John replied, and Sherlock huffed, turning back to screens.

"Could he have committed suicide?" Mycroft asked, addressing John. "He was being charged with terrorism, treason, and hundreds of counts of lesser charges."

"Suicide by heart attack? That's an incredibly painful way to go. Unless it happened fast enough he didn't feel it, though that's unlikely." John answered, watching Sherlock. His lover had stopped, and John leaned in to watch a video feed over his shoulder. "And how could he cause one deliberately?"

It appeared to be a visitation, between Moran and a beautiful young woman dressed in black. She was all elegance, and lovely grace. John was struck by the way she moved, every turn of her head, the sweet smile on her face, all perfection. She seemed so familiar, and John struggled to place her.

"Who is she?" John asked Sherlock, but it was Mycroft who answered.

"That is Lady Sybil Moran, his wife."

"That's Moran's wife? Good Lord, isn't she a bit young for him?" John was surprised, he couldn't see the gorgeous creature on the screen married to a man so much older than her. He found himself smiling despite the circumstances as she gracefully got up from her chair, and went and kissed her husband goodbye. Her kiss was sweet, and she had a smile on her face as she left.

Sherlock rewound the footage, and pulled a headset from under the desk. He ignored everyone, and played back the visit again, sitting insanely close to the screen. Sherlock sucked in a breath as Sybil Moran bent down to kiss her husband, and he turned the footage back again, and again. He pulled back abruptly, and ripped the headset off. He turned up the speakers, and zoomed the footage in close, watching as she bent and kissed her husband.

"Listen." Sherlock ordered, playing the audio on loud.

"_You're wearing it, Sybil."_

"_Of course I am! Silly Sebbie, why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?"_

Sherlock stopped the footage, and zoomed in again. On her hand was a flash of gold, a ring.

"Why wouldn't she say '_Of course I'm wearing your ring.' _Why did she phrase it like that? And if it was something he wanted her to wear, or it was a piece she wore all the time, he wouldn't have mentioned it like that. Like he was upset she had it on." Sherlock questioned, and he played the audio back again. Moran sounded upset, not at all happy.

"What's the ring then?" John asked, peering at the screen.

Sherlock zoomed in the last time, and as the image cleared, John felt like the world dropped out from beneath him. There was a haunting sense of familiarity about it, like he should know who it belonged to. It was an **M**, black and masculine, set in Welsh gold. It was a man's signet ring, and did not seem to be hers, as she wore it on her largest finger, as if it were too big.

"**M **for Moran? Not likely. She spoke in the past tense, as if the previous owner of the ring was dead." Sherlock sounded excited, and he had an expression on his face John hadn't seen for two years. He hadn't looked like that since a certain madman was alive. "She isn't wearing Moran's ring. It's Moriarty's."

"Now hang on Sherlock! That lovely girl can't be Moriarty's disciple. Seriously? Can she?" John was confused, trying to reconcile the image of the young noblewoman before him with his mental image of a cold-blooded disciple bent on revenge.

Sherlock didn't reply, just played the audio again.

"_Why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?"_

"Let's look at all the facts, shall we?" Sherlock stood, and began pacing. "First, Lord Moran attempts to destroy the British government. We catch him, he's incarcerated. No contact with the outside world, other than his wife and a lawyer. The lawyer is clean, yes?" Sherlock asked Mycroft, who nodded. Sherlock went back to pacing, hands and arms moving excitedly. "He cannot be the one who orchestrated the overdone fireworks show at Blackwood. Sure, he may have been aware of it, even ordered it, but that makes no sense now that he's dead. If he was avenging Moriarty, why would he die? Wouldn't he be trying to escape, get revenge in person? Sure, he might want to get revenge for his capture and arrest, but that brings us right back around to the fact he can do nothing while in that secure facility. And he wouldn't use those words, the ones in blood at Blackwood. He would have said _I _instead of _WE._ We know from Mycroft's investigation that Moran received orders from outside the country to blow up Parliament. If he were the last disciple, wouldn't he be giving the orders instead?"

"The only reason for Moran to be killed would be to keep him from revealing someone _else's _plans. He knew something, something important enough to kill him over it. It can't be the lawyer, he never made physical contact with Moran. Sybil comes in, kisses him, and he's dead within a day? Honestly, that's just too perfect for it to be coincidence."

"And then there's the connections between my last mission, the explosives used by Moran in the bombing attempt, and the incendiaries used at Blackwood. This whole thing stinks of connections to Moriarty! The man is dead, and he's still causing mayhem!"

"Think about it. It's the perfect cover. Young socialite, easily noticed and then dismissed as unimportant. Nothing but a pretty face to the outside world." Sherlock was all manic energy, conviction pouring off him in waves.

Sherlock stopped pacing, and looked at the screen, to the image of Sybil Moran kissing her husband. "I'd be willing to bet that she killed him, with that kiss. Did you see how he froze up when she kissed him? He didn't kiss her back. So, a kiss from her is not usual." Sherlock motioned to the picture, and he was right, Moran was not kissing his very beautiful wife back. "There's no way an otherwise healthy man, who's being monitored every second, suddenly develops a heart condition without someone noticing something wrong."

"Sybil Moran is the disciple. She wears a ring for the man she loved? Her words make it clear that whoever that was is dead. She was close to him, so very close that she could know the words that Moriarty said to me that day at the pool. And she used those words at Blackwood, written in blood. A threat and promise all in one."

"Have Molly test for toxins immediately after she receives Moran's body. Moran took orders from his North Korean masters, and brought attention to bear where it shouldn't have been. He failed, she got noticed as the wife of a traitor. She killed her husband because he was no longer useful, he knew too much to let him live, and he knew who Moriarty's last disciple was." Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft's reply; he whipped out his mobile and began typing, most likely to Molly.

"Sherlock, are you sure?" John knew better than to doubt Sherlock, but he was having trouble wrapping his head around Sherlock's theory. He kept jumping around, his connections tenuous yet equally solid.

"Yes John! If he was the disciple, he wouldn't be dead! He most likely would never have been caught in the first place! Moriarty didn't suffer fools." Sherlock was pacing again, all nervous energy.

"Where is she now? I am assuming correctly that you've had surveillance on her since her husband's arrest?" Sherlock asked Mycroft. Mycroft nodded, and gestured the lost looking aide back into the chair Sherlock had shoved him from. John just stood and watched, struggling not to be lost in Sherlock's reasoning.

"Bring up the surveillance videos of Sybil Moran please. Last forty eight hours." Mycroft ordered.

The aide worked quickly, and the screens filled with video footage of Sybil Moran. Shopping, going out to lunch, walking a tiny dog on a thin leash, every activity normal for a young woman who had too much money and no purpose in life. The most recent shot was of her and another woman dressed up for a night out, getting into her town car.

"We have nothing more recent than this, sir. The teams reported that her car returned to the Moran household from a club around 3 AM." The aide reported, and he replayed the video of Lady Moran getting in her car with her companion on one of the larger screens.

It was that video that made John swear in disbelief, reaching out and freezing the video.

"_That can't be….!_" John breathed in shock, hand shaking as he pointed to the blonde woman in the shot next to Lady Moran. "Mary?"

Sherlock moved in close, Mycroft right next to him. There was an older woman in the frame next to Lady Moran, with very bright, short blonde hair. She was short, but perfectly muscled. Trim legs showed off to perfection in the short beaded black mini she wore. Black high heels, and a diamond pin flashing from her hair. Her eyes were done up in smoky blacks and greys, accentuating her bright blue eyes. She was beautiful, and had a predatory look about her that screamed power. It was a look John had never seen on her, but it was unmistakably Mary Morstan.

"What is your former fiancé doing with Sybil Moran?" Mycroft asked, eyes narrowed at John.

"She disappeared after an attempt was made on her life. There was another woman present in the park as well, one I couldn't identify." Sherlock looked at John, but his doctor was lost in shock, just watching as the video feed started up again, replaying her exit from the manor.

"Run them both through the facial recognition programs, see what happens." Sherlock ordered the aide, who immediately typed in the command. Portraits of both Mary and Sybil Moran appeared to the side on another screen, green dots and lines connecting their facial features, as the system tried to find matches. Pictures flew by at undecipherable speeds, as the computers processed and discarded each potential match.

John tore his gaze away from the screen, and his expression hardened. He shook his head, and walked away. He went to the stairs down to the holo-floor, and sat. John put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and just sat there, saying nothing. He was past the point of acceptance, and he needed a moment alone. Mary had kept so much from him, and now it seemed she was in league with someone who used to work for Moriarty.

_Mary may have worked for Moriarty!_ _I lived with her, slept with her, planned on marrying her. None of it was real. If she worked for Moriarty, is it possible the disciple sent her after me on purpose?_

John distantly heard Mycroft tell Sherlock that the facial program could very well take a while, and Sherlock replied back that Mycroft needed to find out where the women were for certain. Just because the car returned to the house, doesn't mean the women did. He asked Mycroft to get the surveillance teams to confirm their current location, before John couldn't hear anything else. It was quiet in the large room, the only sounds the echoing rustle of people moving about the hard floors, and the tiny beeps as the computers discarded one match after another.

John looked out down to the floor below him, where Sherlock had invited him to watch the real world version of his mind palace in action. He sighed, and tried his best to let go of his anger. He had been so mad for so long, and he hated what it was doing to him. He wasn't built to be angry all the time, it was making him feel worn out, older.

"Mycroft designed it for me." Sherlock sat down next to John on the step, leaning his elbows back on the next step up.

"What?" John said, struggling to focus. He looked at Sherlock, who gave him a tiny smile in return.

"The holographic interaction program, the lasers." Sherlock waved a hand at the floor below them. "Mycroft said he was fed up with not being able to see my cases as I saw them, so he made this. It was more for him than me, really. He designed it around my descriptions of my mind palace, the techniques I use to view and process information."

"Huh. I was right, then. I guessed it was something like that, actually." John leaned back as well, matching Sherlock's posture. He knew Sherlock was attempting to distract him, and John let him. "It was from the way you were moving your hands, it's exactly like how you move when you're in your mind palace."

"I've only ever used it once before, back when he first built it. I came back for a brief spell about a year ago. So he dragged me down here, made me try it out." Sherlock looked down at his feet, and he seemed to be looking for something else to say.

"You came back last year? When?" John know he shouldn't ask, that it would just stir up more trouble. He didn't want Sherlock to be upset, thinking John was still angry at him for faking his death.

Sherlock looked at him, and his face was a strange mix of happiness and grief. "I came back for your birthday."

John blinked in surprise, and he found himself choking up a little, the emotions swirling just under the surface. "You came back for my birthday?" John thought hard, and remembered. "Harry threw me a party at a local pub. She got drunk, everyone was uncomfortable, and I was in no mood for having fun. It was dreadful, actually."

"I could tell, you looked miserable." Sherlock replied, casting John a look out of the corner of his eye. "I was there."

John turned to Sherlock, pulling one leg up on the step he was on, facing his lover. "You were there? Tell me."

"I was in a black car parked across the street. Sat there the whole time. I fought the urge to just run across the street, and into that pub. I really wanted to see you. But I couldn't, I hadn't taken out all of the high ranking disciples yet, the majority still had orders to kill you if it was discovered my death was a lie." Sherlock moved, copying John's position on the step, his face about a foot from John's.

"I remember taking Harry home, and when we stepped out of the pub, I saw a black car. For a second there I thought for some reason it might be Mycroft, it looked like his car." John thought hard, trying to pull memories up of that horrid evening. "It made me sad; I knew he'd never be bothered with something as trivial as his little brother's former flatmate's birthday. I took Harry home, then I went to…. I went to…."

Sherlock reached out his hand, capturing John's as they clasped together at the painful memory.

"You went to the cemetery, you went to my grave. You sat there beside it, until it started to rain." Sherlock squeezed his hands, and John uncurled them to twine his fingers with Sherlock's. "You sat with me for hours, John."

"But it wasn't really you."

"I was with you, John. I was less than a hundred feet away, one of Mycroft's men having a fit, convinced I was going to blow my cover, and let you see me." Sherlock tried to smile at him, but he couldn't pull it off. "Just being that close to you was as enjoyable as it was painful."

"Sherlock." It was all John could manage, his voice overcome by tears, ones he refused to shed. He just looked in Sherlock's eyes, and the joy he felt at having this man back in his life came singing out from his heart, chasing away the tears. He would never have to feel that sorrow again. Sherlock was home. John tugged, and pulled Sherlock closer. He leaned over their hands, and kissed his detective. Sherlock kissed him back, then pulled away a little.

"I only saw you for a few hours, but it was enough to give me the strength to keep going. You set me back on course, gave me back my focus. I had spiraled out of control, convinced the only way you would ever really be safe was if I was actually dead. That every breath I took was placing you in danger." Sherlock said it all so calmly, as if mentioning dying wasn't a big deal. He hinted at something far more final than a fake death, and John glared at him.

"Don't be an idiot." John growled at him, kissing him on the lips. "You're back, I'm fine, and we're together."

Sherlock kissed him back, hands raising to frame John's face. John scooted closer, and he grabbed at Sherlock's collar, holding him tight. The kiss promised to go deeper, but a shadow fell over them, and an impatient sigh broke them apart. They both turned and looked. Mycroft stood over them, hands in his pockets, with a very exasperated look on his face.

"Is that all you two are going to do today?" Mycroft asked, his tone making it clear he thought their behavior juvenile.

"In between doing your job, saving the Western World, and getting some lunch, absolutely." It wasn't Sherlock who made that reply, but John, and he leaned over to kiss his detective one more time. "C'mon, Sherlock, let's go find some food before I pass out."

John stood, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. John pulled Sherlock past his brother, and towards the door leading to the house. John completely ignored Mycroft, and John grinned when he heard Sherlock snickering as he followed behind his doctor. Anthea was standing at the door, waiting on them.

"I've had Cook make lunch, if you would like to eat here. The results from the scans should be complete within the hour, and we should have visual confirmation of the women's location at about the same time."

John turned to Sherlock, and he shrugged, not caring. He wasn't interested in eating, but he also wasn't willing to let John out of his sight either. John nodded to Anthea, and she opened the door, leading them out to the hallway.

* * *

John sat on a very expensive couch in one of the many underused rooms in Mycroft's house, eating a salad, and perversely satisfied to have his feet up on the coffee table. Sherlock sat on the couch next to him, his coat and jacket hanging off an armchair nearby. Sherlock wasn't eating, hands under his chin, leaning back, and looking up at the ceiling. He had been there like that since Anthea had directed them to wait, she would have the food brought to them.

"You know, I am very upset with Mycroft." John said, swallowing a mouthful of veggies. "Making me eat rabbit food, a nice ham sandwich would've been nice. We aren't all on his diet."

"Somehow, my dear doctor, I doubt it's the vegetation that has you upset with my brother." Sherlock mused quietly, rubbing his chin idly over his fingertips. "You would have beat him to a bloody pulp over an hour ago."

Sherlock didn't sound mad at all, just stating a fact. John cast him a glance, and put his salad down. He took a sip of filtered water, and then decided he might as well own up.

"I've been mad at your brother since the night you came back." John confessed, and sighed loudly. He felt slightly embarrassed.

"Why?"

"Because he talked you out of telling me the truth, sent you away on those missions, got you brutally beaten, and left you alone out there, with no one but strangers to help you as you chased down the most dangerous people on the planet." John felt the anger stir in his heart, and reined it in.

Sherlock had turned to him, and was watching his face. He frowned, and made to speak. John shook his head, and figured he might as well confess the lot of it.

"And …... All he had to do was make me disappear too, and I could have gone with you." John looked back at Sherlock, and smiled sheepishly. Sherlock's face was blank, and he blinked in surprise.

"You would have gone with me?" Sherlock asked, eyes intent on John's face.

"Without hesitation." John replied, and tried to let Sherlock see the truth. That he would follow Sherlock anywhere, to keep him safe. "Even before I knew that I was in love with you, I would have followed you to Hell and back."

Sherlock reached out, and took John's hand. He held it, and Sherlock looked like he was going to speak.

"Dr Watson, as sentimentally delightful as that thought may be, it would not have suited the best interests of the missions, this country, or my brother if you had gone with him." Mycroft stated from the doorway. "You would have been a fatal distraction, as you are steadily becoming one now."

John whipped his head around, to see Mycroft staring at him, and it was only Sherlock's hand on his that kept him from leaping up and bashing the insufferable man's skull in. John dragged in a deep breath, and refused to let his anger get away from him. It was as if Mycroft was attempting to spur him into doing something rash. There was a tiny twitch next to his eye, as if he couldn't quite hold back his disappointment at not getting a stronger response from John.

Sherlock looked at his brother, then back at John, and he appeared to see something too. The look he tossed his brother was glacial, any hint of warmer emotion leached from his eyes and face. Sherlock stood, and moved between his brother and John, coming within arm's reach of Mycroft.

"Brother Mine, be very careful how you proceed." His voice was a deep growl, and his posture screamed anger, cold anger.

Mycroft looked at his brother, and came to the conclusion that he may have gone too far. He smiled that tight, insincere smile of his, and nodded once.

"The surveillance teams are due to report any time now. Do make your way back down at your convenience." Mycroft didn't even look at John, he just turned and left. Sherlock stalked to the door, and watched as his brother walked down the hall and out of sight.

John stood, and joined his lover at the door. He looked at Sherlock, and reached out to touch his jaw, as he was tense with anger still. Sherlock flicked his eyes down to meet his, and the anger just melted away. Sherlock lifted his hand, and held John's to his face.

"I wonder if he realizes just how dreadfully obvious he's being." Sherlock said, stepping closer to John.

"I'd bet he either thinks I'm not aware he's trying to get us to break up, or he doesn't know that's what he's trying to do. Is he actually jealous, or does he really think that I'm going to get you killed?"

"Probably all of it, to some degree." Sherlock leaned down, and snatched a quick kiss. "For Mycroft, sentiment is a dangerous flaw. And he's not entirely wrong."

"Really?" John raised a brow, and with a look dared Sherlock to keep going.

"For Mycroft it's dangerous; for me, not so much." Sherlock grinned, and laughed as John rolled his eyes at him. "Nothing's too dangerous for me."

There came a chirping noise, oddly cheerful in the emotionless room. Sherlock perked up, and went to dig his mobile out of his pockets. He opened a text, he stood up straighter, and what he read made excitement crackle off him in almost tangible sparks.

"What is it?"

"Molly- she ran those tests I asked her to, before she did anything else." Sherlock looked at John, and he saw satisfaction and a crazy gleam sparkle in his eyes. "Moran was poisoned."

Sherlock all but ran from the room, John right behind him, both of them tearing down the long hall. Sherlock tagged his hand on the access panel, and he barely waited for the door to open before he was sneaking through. Mycroft was there already, and he turned as his brother walked to him.

"Moran was indeed poisoned. The toxin made him have a heart attack, a time-delayed mixture, with organic poisons. _Convallaria majalis _and a small amount of hydrogen cyanide, from _hydrangea paniculata._ There was a trace of red latex on his lips, as well. Sybil Moran killed him with her lip gloss." Sherlock delivered his news all in one rush, excitement at Molly's discovery validating his theory making him giddy.

"Excellent timing. We have news as well." Mycroft pointed to one of his aides, who swallowed loudly before speaking, as the detective was making him very nervous.

"Sir, we ran the facial recognition programs, and got mixed results." The aide pulled up Sybil Moran's portrait first, above them on the larger screen. Beside her portrait was a grey void, the words 'NO MATCH' flashing, as if teasing them. "We got no results on Lady Moran, sir. We pulled her records, as far back as her wedding certificate to Lord Moran just over two years ago. We… we… could find no trace of her prior to that. No passport, no visa, no student ID. She doesn't exist anywhere in the public record before her wedding date."

"What about agencies, government affiliations? She must have been trained by someone." Sherlock asked, glaring at the aide.

"We checked, sir. The program came up blank. Not even a classified file or deleted file; it's like she doesn't exist." The aide glanced around at the three men surrounding him, but his gaze stopped on John, and he paled. "And with reference to a classified file, we found something on the other woman, Mary Morstan."

John tensed, and moved closer. Hands curled into fists, John braced himself for hearing whatever came next. The aide clicked, and Mary's portrait replaced Sybil's. The one they had of her from the surveillance video, eyes all smokey, a dangerous smile on her lips, graced the left side of the screen. The aide then clicked again, and a new picture materialized next to it. It was still Mary; hair still bright blonde, but slightly longer, and her face was clear of makeup. It wasn't recent, and looked to be several years old. It had been taken at a distance, and zoomed in, making the image slightly hazy. Underneath the newer picture, two words were flashing in red: 'CLASSIFIED', and 'DECEASED'.

"The file was classified by the CIA, sir. We can't tell you her real name, where she's from, nothing. Her file is completely locked out, the only thing we could access was her date of death, almost six years ago now. We need clearance to see more." The aide stopped talking, his eyes locked on Mycroft. "We sent in the usual request under your authority, but it came back denied."

John was staring at the new picture of Mary, the confirmation of her lies clear for all to see. John felt a tumbled mix of anger, grief, and surprise. It was as if a part of him had been holding out hope that Mary wasn't all lies. That the woman he had come to love, the woman who had saved him from his grief, couldn't be this person, this foreign operative. John closed his eyes, and fought back the emotions threatening to take him over. He concentrated on breathing, and let everything go. He just let it all go. The anger, the sense of betrayal, the love, all of it. He let it all flow out of him, and John strived for peace.

_Air in, air out, let it go. It doesn't matter anymore. She doesn't matter anymore. Sherlock matters. Stopping the disciple matters. Living your life matters. Let it go._

John relaxed, as the emotions faded away. He knew Sherlock was at his shoulder, but the detective hadn't touched him, sensing that John was working things out. John smiled, and reached out his hand without looking. Strong, long fingers gripped his, holding tight. John squeezed, and opened his eyes. He lifted his eyes to Sherlock's, and smiled at his detective.

"I'm alright. What's next, then?" John asked, his voice even. Sherlock nodded, and skewered the aide with a piercing look.

"Where are they now?" Sherlock was all business, and the aide shrank back slightly in his seat. He cast a look to his boss, but he wasn't getting any support from Mycroft. He paled even more, and hands shaking, eyed all three of them before finally stammering out his answer.

"The Level 4 team observed the Moran townhouse, saw no signs of anyone being home, and decided to do a sneak and peek. When they went inside, they found…..nothing. The targets weren't there, sir. They swept the house, and found the personal smartphones of the staff, Lady Moran, and her bodyguards all left on the kitchen table. All were on, GPS enabled. Nothing personal appeared to be removed from the house, no clothes from closets, everything just left. Team Leader reported that it was as if the targets had needed nothing when they left."

Silence. The aide looked down at his hands, avoiding their eyes. He drew in another breath, and looked up at Sherlock.

"They found one thing, sir. On Lady Moran's mobile. There was a text, unsent. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes."

"What did it say?" Mycroft asked, before Sherlock could strangle the aide for taking too long.

The aide clicked a button, and a smaller picture appeared, obviously taken on someone's smartphone. It was a close up picture of another mobile's screen, but the words were clear.

**The fires are coming, Sherlock. Protect your heart, if you can. –D**

* * *

The three of them were in Mycroft's personal office, a stone room similar to the operations room, smaller, with a large portrait of the Queen behind his desk. John sat in a chair in front of Mycroft's desk, chin in his hand, thinking hard. Sherlock stood behind the desk, hovering at Mycroft's shoulder as his elder brother made a phone call.

He had it on speaker, at Sherlock's insistence, and only after garnering promises from both men to remain silent did he relent. It rang out for over a minute, and John was expecting it to go to voicemail. Suddenly the line opened, and there was nothing at first. Just an open connection, a faint buzzing noise. John tilted his head, convinced he heard something. When the voice finally spoke, John barely stopped himself from jumping.

"This had better be important, Mycroft Holmes, or I will hop on the earliest flight to London and stomp your British ass." It was a woman's voice, with a very distinct American accent. John blinked in surprise, and struggled not to laugh.

"My apologies, dear. I need a consultation, please." Mycroft's voice had changed, no longer snarky or sarcastic, but polite, and he seemed to lean on his accent, polishing it up even more than it already was. John raised a brow in disbelief, and Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand, as if holding back a laugh.

"Isn't Sherlock your resident genius? I'm in California, my love, do you have _any idea_ what time it is here?" The woman on the line was clearly annoyed, and sounded like she was struggling to get up. "I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming about not helping out an emotionally stunted Brit with Mommy issues."

"Violet. I feel it pressing to mention I am not alone." Mycroft hurriedly spoke, apparently willing to let the American know he wasn't alone, to get her to stop berating him.

"Oh! Sherlock, is that you, sexy?" The woman named Violet cheerfully asked, her mood swiftly changing.

"Yes, Violet. Good morning." Sherlock replied, and his voice changed as well. Sherlock had charm when he wished to use it, and his words were positively dripping with it. "Always lovely to hear your voice."

"Is it true you _finally _hooked up with that dashing army doctor? The sexy blonde?" Violet asked, and there were sounds of her moving about a room in the background.

John bit his lip, and struggled very hard not to laugh. Whoever this woman was, she knew a lot, and from the other side of the hemisphere, too. Mycroft tossed up his hands, and leaned back in his chair, his face exasperated, and waved at Sherlock to just take over.

"Do you mean Dr Watson? And yes, I can confirm that I have 'hooked' up." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at John. John grinned, thoroughly enjoying this phone call.

"Well, that's wonderful! I was afraid your sex drive would evaporate like your brother's, glad to see that didn't happen. What can I do for you, at this utterly horrendous time of day?" There were sounds of her moving something, and she must have set the phone down, as they could hear the noises of a computer powering up in the background, the familiar beeps and whirring of fans ubiquitous across the globe.

"My brother sent you two pictures. We need access to any and all information you can get on the subjects." Sherlock said, all business now.

"Yeah, I see the email, one sec. Ohhh, the blonde is cute! The brunette, not so much, I like blondes….." They heard typing in the background, and she started humming. John leaned closer, wondering what the song was. She was singing under her breath now, and John was really curious as to what she was doing. Whatever it was, she was enjoying herself immensely. The song was familiar, but John couldn't tell what it was.

The singing stopped, and they heard what sounded like Violet swearing in the background. She must have picked the phone back up, because her voice was more immediate, and there was no mistaking the shock in it.

"What the hell are you guys doing over there? _Fuck me, what did you just send me?!"_ Violet was yelling now, and the mobile's speakers fizzled a little at the volume.

"Violet, dear. Please calm down." Mycroft spoke, hand reaching for the mobile on his desk, stopping just shy of it as the woman on the other end started cussing louder. John about lost his tenuous control on his laughter, as he watched Mycroft's face as the woman created on the spot some very original and interesting swear words. She kept at it for a moment longer, before she calmed down, and started breathing normally.

"Before I go and paint a target on my back, I want to know just how fucking important this is." Violet asked, and she was not messing around. Her voice had lost the flirty edge to it, and she sounded like she was seconds away from hanging up the phone. "Uncle Sam won't be happy if he catches me."

"This is very important, Violet. The brunette is Moriarty's last remaining disciple, and the blonde is someone we know, who's gotten pulled into this for some reason, we don't know how or why." Sherlock told her, and he tried to impart just how urgent this was into his voice.

"Shit. Sherlock, I thought you got them all. Seriously? The fashion plate is a disciple? Hhhmmm, she just got sexier. I need some assurances, please. Favors. If this is as important as you make it sound, then I want a major favor, _both of you._ A really big favor. Each. Oh, and Sherlock takes me dancing next time I'm in town. Man has got some moves in him! He can bring his boyfriend." Violet laid it all out, and she started to idly hum that song again.

John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock actually appeared to be embarrassed. He wouldn't look at John, and John narrowed his eyes at his lover. Sherlock didn't have time to answer, as Mycroft replied quickly, obviously eager to get the conversation back on track.

"Yes, Violet. A big favor, from each of us." Mycroft said, one hand out to stop Sherlock from speaking.

"And the dancing." She said, stubbornly.

"Yes, I'll take you dancing!" Sherlock groused.

"Perfect! One sec, lemme start dodging Uncle Sam over here, stay sexy." She put the phone back down, and they heard her typing again. She started to hum again, and John was very curious about what it was. John looked at Sherlock, who had a very exasperated look on his face, like he couldn't believe he got trapped into taking a woman out dancing. John was finding this to be the best phone call he'd ever experienced, and he didn't want it to end.

"Oh, wow. Um. Wow." Violet said. "I found something on the blonde. Brunette is still processing."

"Go on, Violet." Mycroft said.

"I don't have her name, just her initials. A.G.R.A. Born in 1972, recruited by the CIA at the tender age of seventeen. She was part of their badly named _la femme fatale_ program a couple of decades ago. Top of her class out of the Farm, highest mission success rate for her age group, and she was also in the top of her class for kills rates. I've got my eyes on over three hundred confirmed actions, many of them multiples. Minimal collateral damage, she left civilians alone, and it seems she did most of her work solo. She was active for over fifteen years. Impressive, most don't make it past ten without the Agency tagging them with expiration dates." Violet dropped that information as if she were reading off the answers to a crossword puzzle, and she had more. "Damn near six years ago, she took out three high-ranking terrorists, about a dozen of their people, and supposedly blew herself up at the same time. Uncle Sam has her listed as dead."

Sherlock went to speak, but she interrupted them.

"Well, they did have her listed as dead. There's a tag on her file, a recent action. From a few days ago. Looks like someone let it slip that she was alive, told the CIA that their Golden Girl wasn't red mist, and they sent the dogs after her. Whoa! Looks like she took care of it though, three dead bad guys, and she got away! Oh look! It mentions you, Sherlock! What was that like, at the crime scene? I bet it was hot. I'll go cruising through MPS crime scene logs after I finish this. Never mind that, I've got more. Whoever she is for reals, they want her dead. And I don't think they'll be able to pull it off easy; everything I'm seeing here says she is one badass momma."

The three men had nothing to say, just sat there and tried to process the information this woman was pulling out of the ether. John was struggling, and he was glad he was sitting down.

"I just found out who informed Uncle Sam that she was still alive. Some creepy dude with the pretentious name of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Oh, this is priceless! He sold the blonde for information on Mycroft! Gratz dear, you just became currency! You guys outta know him, he lives on your side of the pond."

"Yes, we know the name." Sherlock practically growled it, and his face was a mask of disgust. John was pulled from his own thoughts by the look on Sherlock's face, and he knew that he was going to be asking about the media magnate for certain. Mycroft looked annoyed, but he didn't seem particularly upset that Magnussen was targeting him.

"I got something on the brunette." Violet said, and she said nothing else.

"Violet? Are you still there?" Mycroft asked.

"Um, yyeeaahhhh." Violet was quiet, and she wasn't humming anymore. "I found something in one of the blonde's mission files, eight years ago. There's one mention of her providing backup, to another female operative. Younger woman, early twenties at the time. There's no picture, no name. Just a generalized description, but it kinda matches the brunette. And if she's a disciple of the late and great Moriarty, this makes sense."

"What? Just say it, Violet." Sherlock snapped, his patience almost gone.

"The note on her is short. She's a ghost, a freelance operative. Nothing substantial at all, just this one mention. She was hired to take out a politician in Europe, and did that, but she took everyone, and I mean everyone, within a quarter mile of the target out with him. Two dozen dead in less than thirty minutes; whole family, staff, guards, everyone dead. It was covered up as a gas leak explosion at a private resort. Oh, wow. Got something. I found a name, sorta."

"What?" Mycroft bit out, highly impatient now.

"This is sooo hot! She's my fav now. Super sexy." Violet said, and she started humming again. "There's a line in the cleanup report done by an Agency sweeper team, after the 'incident' at the resort. This is so hot! They nicknamed the female operative 'Death'."

"Death? As a name? Seriously?" John couldn't help himself.

"Gasp! Who is that? Is that the boyfriend?" Violet got even more excited, and Mycroft sighed loudly. Sherlock waved a hand at John, as if to say it didn't matter anymore.

"Um, yeah sorry. Hi." John said, suddenly uncomfortable, realizing he'd been sitting there the whole time, listening to this highly entertaining woman do all their hard work for them. "Thank you for helping us out with this, I appreciate it."

"You sound as delicious as your pictures, sexy. You are most welcome. See, boys? Sometimes a girl just needs some consideration. Recognition, even." Violet was typing away again, and she was humming that song. John stifled the urge to ask, and just smiled at the mobile.

"Um, thanks?" John said, lost as how to proceed.

"Anything else boys? Before I sacrifice my hard drive and skip town?" Violet asked, between humming her song and typing.

"Anything else you can tell us about them? Does anyone out there know where they are?" Mycroft asked, face intent.

"Nope. Off the grid. Only activity I see is mine, yours from the last few hours, and the CIA from a few days back. I'm going to delete my foot prints, do you want me to delete yours as well?" Violet was typing up a storm, the clacking of keys loud over the line.

"No, shouldn't need to…" Mycroft was cut off by Sherlock, who talked over him.

"Violet, can you go back at any time, access this information?" Sherlock said, the question hanging in the air.

"Yup. As long as I have a secure line, anytime. Why?" She asked, still typing.

"I may need to get back in there in the future. As for now, just delete your access, Langley already knows we submitted a request." Sherlock said.

"Perfect! I'll be cashing in those favors soon, boys. Kiss the hottie boyfriend for me, Sherlock. Don't forget, dancing! Lots of dancing. Goodbye Mycroft, find a better sense of timing please. And John, sweetness, you lucky bastard, enjoy the catch of the century! Bye!" There was click, then the tone of a dropped line. She was gone.

"So, who wants to tell me who Violet is, and why she wants to go dancing with Sherlock?" John asked, alternately torn between laughing at the look on Mycroft's face, and the endearingly offbeat American and her miraculous information.

* * *

The evening sun was warm, filtered by the heavily tinted windows on the Jaguar. The powerful car cut through traffic like a dream, and they were making good time back to Baker Street. Sherlock sat beside John, who was leaning with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. John looked tired, and Sherlock knew that no matter how stoically John tried to handle the day's revelations about Mary, it couldn't have been easy. John had waved off any concern, and merely nodded when Sherlock suggested they go home after spending hours looking through the CCTV footage of London, searching for any sign of the two women. They had found nothing.

Sherlock was frustrated, and he didn't bother trying to hide it from anyone. Mycroft had lost patience, claiming he had other work to do, and leaving them alone in the underground bunker. Anthea had walked up to them, and told them the car would be ready for them in a few minutes if they wanted to leave. Sherlock had told her thank you, and John had silently joined him at the door to leave.

Sherlock caught a glimpse of a tail car in the rearview mirror, and he knew Mycroft had them under surveillance again. No matter how upset he might be over Sherlock being in a relationship with John, he wasn't going to take the chance on anything happening to either of them. There was another man in their car too, aside from the dour driver Mycroft usually used. He was armed, and had gotten in the front as Sherlock and John had piled in the back. Sherlock saw signs of a nine mil in a shoulder holster, and a snub nosed revolver strapped to his ankle. Mycroft wasn't messing around.

_Death. What a strange name for a woman, even if she is an assassin. And one so successful, she has been invisible for the last decade. She has sacrificed her cover as Lady Moran, shed that identity completely. She has no intention of returning to it. She means for this to be her last mission. She will come for John. He is my heart. All that I feel comes from him._

At that thought Sherlock rested his head on John's, and the doctor's steady breathing let him know John had fallen asleep. The warmth from John was soothing, reassuring. Sherlock was finding himself becoming steadily dependent on that warmth, missing it when John wasn't touching him. Sherlock understood to some degree Mycroft's concern with this relationship, he truly did. Mycroft feared that Sherlock would become so reliant on John Watson that if the day came he didn't have him anymore, Sherlock would cease to be himself. And Sherlock knew he was right. And he didn't care. It was too late to pull back, to sever this bond.

The car rolled to an easy stop outside 221B, and Sherlock gently nudged John awake. John stirred, and seeing where they were at, sluggishly sat up and stretched.

"Sorry, Sherl', didn't mean to fall asleep on you." John mumbled, yawning.

Sherlock said nothing, just opened the door and held it as his doctor stumbled out sleepily. John was exhausted again, the emotional toll of the day wearing him down. Sherlock shut the door, and took John's arm in a firm grip. Sherlock eyed the street both ways as he walked with John to their front door. Everything appeared to be normal, including the surveillance car parked at the corner. Letting them in, Sherlock didn't relax until he shut and locked the door behind them.

John went straight to his chair, barely taking the time to pull off his jacket, and removing the gun from his back. John had the presence of mind to put it carefully on the table next to his chair before passing out, fast asleep. Tiny slips of noise that sounded suspiciously like snores came swiftly from the red armchair. Sherlock smiled, and picked up the weapon. It was the same dependable gun John had carried through his military service, and the years since. Sherlock pulled it from its holster, and tucked the gun into the waistband of his slacks, under his jacket. John would be in no condition to use it if someone came for them at the flat, and Sherlock had no issue with killing someone if they were so foolish as to attempt an attack.

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson moving about downstairs, and knew she would be up soon. Sherlock prowled around the flat, looking for anything out of place, anything disturbed. Just the usual, Mrs. Hudson cleaning up as she snooped about, but nothing suspicious. No one had been in here who shouldn't have been.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson whispered loudly from the front room. She was standing at the door, and in her attempt to avoid waking John she was actually making more noise.

"I'm here. Don't worry, John's fast asleep, I could play Bach in his ear and I wouldn't wake him." Sherlock said, not lowering his voice as he came back out into the front room. "Anything eventful happen while we were out?"

"No, just a couple reporters nosing about after you two left, but since you were gone for so long they gave up." Mrs. Hudson said, walking into the kitchen, heading for the tea-pot. "Has Mycroft put his people back on you then? I saw that car was back, same spot it used to be back in the day."

"Yes he has." Sherlock said, sitting at the still clean table, and he eyed it with displeasure, certain he could find something with which to return it to its naturally messy state.

_Maybe I can get Moran's blood results, narrow down the toxins Death used to kill him. Could be useful to have someday. So much to catch up on! Molly could bring them over I suppose, but John is sleeping. Sleeping! So boring._

Sherlock wanted to bang his head on the table, feeling his brain start to circle, spiral out into little tangents of thoughts and ideas. Having no leads on the whereabouts of Mary and Death, Sherlock needed something to do. He'd already checked his Inbox and his email, but there was nothing in there worth leaving the flat for, not that he'd feel comfortable leaving John alone anyway. So no cases requiring him to leave, not without John.

Sherlock felt himself getting bored, and his fingers were drumming away at the table, and he shifted in his seat.

"Don't start with your fidgeting now, Sherlock! You start that, next thing I know I've got holes in my wall and bloodstains on my carpets! Drink your tea and restrain yourself." Mrs. Hudson warned him, and a cup of tea appeared next to his hand. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but picked up the tea and took a sip.

"Can't stand being bored." Sherlock muttered, sipping his tea and ignoring Mrs. Hudson's glares as she started puttering about his kitchen. He guessed she was making something to eat, but he wasn't interested and zoned her out. "What am I supposed to do while John is sleeping? He gets so cranky when he's woken from a nap."

Sherlock saw it first, and he stilled, the tea-cup hovering just above its saucer. Mrs. Hudson turned, and saw Sherlock making a fine impression of a statue. He was staring at the table, at the far end. She moved her head and looked, but saw nothing. There was a faint glimmer of something, a slight movement, but Mrs. Hudson couldn't make it out.

Sherlock could see it, and held very still as the red laser dot from a sniper rifle slowly, and deliberately, moved down the length of the table. It moved with purpose, and once it became clear that Sherlock had seen it, whoever was holding the rifle moved it down the table top. His eyes tracked it back to the window, and the sun had set well enough by now he could see where the laser came through the window. Whoever it was, they were in the building across the street. And they weren't alone. Sherlock's heart contracted in fear; there was second dot, the laser cutting through the window, and it was aiming right at John. That one wasn't moving, and the other was closing in on Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't move, the second sniper had John dead to rights, and he knew that if he moved, they would fire. He just knew it, like he knew how to breathe, how to walk.

Mrs. Hudson gasped; the red dot had gotten close enough for her to see it. She looked at Sherlock, and started to reach for him.

"Don't! Don't move. Stay exactly where you are." Sherlock warned her, and he fought the urge to dive away. The dot danced across his teacup, and the bright red light caught him directly over his heart. There it sat, seeming to pulse in time with his rapidly beating heart. Sherlock tensed, waiting for the shot. Waited, as Mrs. Hudson sniffled against the counter, hands at her mouth, stifling her sobs.

Eternity passed, and the red dot held Sherlock immobile. Sherlock didn't care about himself; John was asleep, and had no clue the danger he was in. If he should suddenly wake up, move, anything, they might fire. _Stay asleep, stay asleep! _Sherlock felt his muscles starting to cramp, as the snipers made their position of power very clear. Anger and fear were boiling up in him, but he was trapped, and he knew if he made any move, John was dead.

They held Sherlock prisoner for what felt like forever. He knew it was only for a few minutes, but to him, it felt like hours. Sweat was running down his face, and he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, where he gripped the tea-cup.

Sherlock knew if this kept up any longer, either he or Mrs. Hudson would move, and the snipers would fire. He knew what this was. It was pure, simple, and straight forward threat. Total intimidation. _See how we can get to you. Anywhere. We own you. You will die when we want you to._ He could almost hear the voice behind the threat, so clearly did he receive the message.

Sherlock almost collapsed as the lights pulsed, then as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. The cup hit the tabletop, and rolled onto its side, tea everywhere. Mrs. Hudson began to cry loudly, and Sherlock put both hands on the table and all but shoved himself away from it, to the far wall.

"JOHN! Wake up!" Sherlock yelled, as he pulled the gun from his waistband, and he ran towards the window, safety off and the gun pointed across the street. He kept his body between John and the line of fire they would have to use to shoot his doctor.

John sat up, confused and not able to think straight. He saw Sherlock with his gun drawn, and woke up fast, responding to the unseen threat, not knowing what was going on. Sherlock carefully looked out the window, but saw nothing, no sign that anyone was watching from the building across the street. He looked down and saw the surveillance car, exactly where it usually sat. He pulled back from the window, and went straight to John, grabbing his lover by the arm and dragging him out of the chair, and behind him. Sherlock kept the gun up, and pushed John, protesting the whole way, all the way back into the kitchen and behind the wall.

"Sherlock! What the hell is going on?" John asked, and he struggled against the hold Sherlock had on him, as his detective kept him shoved up against the wall. Sherlock breathed deep, all but panting in relief and fear. He lowered the gun, and turned to John, pulling him against his chest.

"Oh God, John." Sherlock whispered, shaking. "I love you."


	24. Doctor Watson

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. Please enjoy, some lovely John moments here.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Four**

"_**Doctor Watson"**_

Lestrade was at a loss. He stood outside the bedroom door, listening to John trying to calm Sherlock down. The detective was in a manic state, all control lost under what Lestrade could only assume was panic. Fear. Something shattered in the bedroom, and Lestrade flinched. Most likely anger too.

Mrs. Hudson had called him, a first. She had been tearful, scared, babbling about snipers, and John being threatened. Something about Sherlock not being well. Lestrade had flown out of the nightly debrief, ignoring Donovan as she called after him. Lestrade arrived at Baker Street within twenty minutes, and he knew Sherlock would never forgive him, but he had called Mycroft en route. The elder Holmes had listened quietly, and then told him to stay at Baker Street until reinforcements arrived. Lestrade knew the MI6 man didn't mean more police either.

"No John! They had you pinned to that chair! I could only watch! I sat and watched as they threatened you! I could do nothing! Me. I could do nothing to stop them!" Sherlock shouted, rage and fear ravaging his voice, making him sound inhuman.

Lestrade reached for the door handle, but hesitated. He knew John was fine, and that Sherlock would react badly to him interrupting. Lestrade couldn't make out John's reply, just the murmur of the doctor's voice, calming. Lestrade backed away from the door, heading back out to the front room. Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch, sniffling.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked, sitting next to the old woman, hand rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder.

"I think so. I didn't understand what was happening at first. Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson wiped at her cheeks, and sat up straighter. "My boy knew right away what was happening, he told me to hold still."

"I'm sure that was the best thing to do. Mycroft's men are clearing the buildings around Baker Street. I don't think they stuck around anyways." Lestrade said, checking his mobile for any texts from the surveillance team. Mycroft had texted him, told him his people were sweeping the area, and to stay inside until they told him it was clear. Nothing as of yet.

"I don't understand any of this." Mrs. Hudson sat up straight, wiping her hands on her thighs. She looked at Lestrade, and he caught a glimmer of steel in the fragile woman next to him. "Are my boys in trouble?"

Lestrade fought back the impulse to smile, knowing she wouldn't appreciate his thoughts on how charming she was when trying to be brave.

"Looks like it. But you know those two; they can handle it." Lestrade told her, ignoring the fact that Sherlock was having a minor meltdown, and God knows how John was handling things.

His mobile chirped, vibrating in his pocket. Lestrade pulled it out quickly, checking to see if he had any news yet. It was from the surveillance team; their backup had arrived, and the surrounding area was clear. No signs of snipers, or unusual activity. Mycroft had ordered them to stay on guard, within a one block radius.

Lestrade sighed in relief, and leaned back on the couch. "It's ok, the sweeper teams cleared the area." He squeezed her shoulder once more, and she patted his hand in thanks. He struggled up from the comfy seat, and dreaded walking back down that hallway. He heard another crash from down the hall, and decided he better brave knocking.

* * *

Sherlock was shaking, nerves on fire. He stood over the shattered remains of a specimen case, glass littering the floor, shards shining in the light from the lamps. John cussed under his breath, and moved to Sherlock's side, grabbing his hand. Sherlock swallowed back his chaotic emotions, struggling for control. He had lost it once the snipers had withdrawn; Sherlock barely remembered yelling at Mrs. Hudson to stay away from the windows, to call Lestrade. Sherlock had seized John's arm in a vise like grip and dragged him into the dubious security of the bedroom and locked the door. John had barely managed to get half of the story out before Sherlock dissolved in to a fit.

John was safe, alive. Only because they had spared him. Sherlock had been helpless, rendered useless by fear. He knew logically that he had done the only thing he could, that any action of his part would have resulted in John's death. That was the whole point; proving to Sherlock that he wasn't the one in control. They were. Death and Mary.

Sherlock paid no attention to the glass shard imbedded in his knuckle, nor to the pain and blood. John was swearing at him, but his hands were gentle as he tugged Sherlock around, and made him sit on the bed. John examined his hand, and he flinched when he saw the glass piece buried in his lover's hand.

"You need stitches, some antibiotics. I'll need my bag. Stay here." John told him, turning for the door. Sherlock reached out for his arm, afraid to let John leave. "Sherlock, love, I'll be fine, my bag's in the front room."

"No." Just one word was all he could manage, and his skin felt cold, sweat chilling him all over his body. His grip smeared blood over John's forearm, and Sherlock didn't notice. John looked down at his lover, and whatever he saw in Sherlock's face made him pale, his eyes widen. John was torn. Sherlock needed medical attention, but John knew he couldn't leave the room without Sherlock losing it further.

Sherlock barely registered the soft knock at the bedroom door. He saw only John, refusing to take his eyes off his doctor. John tore his eyes away, and looked to the door.

"Who is it?" He asked softly, being careful not to be too loud. Sherlock was on the edge.

"It's Greg, the area's clear. You two okay in there?" Lestrade asked through the door, his voice nervous.

"Um, yeah. One sec." John looked down at Sherlock's hand, blood still dripping in a steady beat onto his arm, to the floor. There was growing puddle of it under his arm, and several large stains on Sherlock's leg, the bed. John stepped away, just one step, letting Sherlock keep his grip and he reached out, and unlocked the door. He popped it open, and he saw Lestrade through the gap, a concerned look on his face.

"We had a minor accident; can you get my medical bag from the front room? It's on the desk." John asked quietly, staying calm, doing everything slow. Lestrade's eyes darted past John to Sherlock, and the blood. His eyes widened in shock, and he nodded once before disappearing.

Sherlock was cold, and he was having trouble focusing. His thoughts had stilled, his mind fuzzy, and he kept his eyes on John. He knew that if he didn't John would disappear. A part of him dimly recognized he was going into shock, but he didn't care. The warmth of his lover's skin under his hand was the only thing he needed. John, with one arm, slowly worked Sherlock out of his suit jacket, and the only time Sherlock let go off John's arm was when John pried his fingers off one at a time, pulling the jacket away as he did it. He gripped John's arm as soon as John tossed the jacket to the side, forgotten before it hit the floor.

Lestrade was back in a flash, stepping into the room as John waved him in. Lestrade swore under his breath at the sight of Sherlock's hand, the glass protruding from his knuckle. It was easily over an inch long, nestled between the joints of Sherlock's hand. Blood welled out around the glass, dripping to the floor.

"Christ! You gonna take care of that here?" Lestrade asked, as John opened the bag, digging through it one-handed. John pulled out his forceps, clamps, needles, and the medical thread for stitches. He pulled open the tiny pocket hidden on the inside, saw he still had some morphine, and antibiotics buried in gauze wrapping. Sherlock wasn't even paying attention; he just kept his gaze on John.

"Yeah, no choice. Don't think I could get him to cooperate with an ambulance, he isn't stable." John told Lestrade, and he knew Sherlock was in a bad way as the detective didn't even react to what he said. Nothing. It wasn't the blood loss, Sherlock was bleeding badly, but he was still well under a pint in what had bled out already. It was his mental state that worried the doctor. John had a hunch that if he went to leave the room, Sherlock would react very badly. "I'm going to need your help."

"Sure. Tell me what to do."

"Have Mrs. Hudson get some towels, hot water, then come right back here."

Lestrade left, and John heard him talking to Mrs. Hudson. She sounded upset, but John couldn't worry about her now. John moved quickly, grabbing Sherlock's free hand, and making his detective grip his belt, tucked his fingers into his waistband. Sherlock instinctively gripped tightly onto John's belt, fingers clutching. John moved in close, standing between Sherlock's knees, and as soon as he did, Sherlock relaxed, his forehead lowering to rest on John's stomach. He sighed, and almost went completely limp. John had been expecting that, and braced his detective against him. John was able to hold Sherlock up, and use both hands again. He quickly pulled on some gloves, and went to work.

John stepped into doctor mode seamlessly, evaluating and inspecting the injury. The glass shard was exactly centered between the largest knuckle and the one to the outside of it. He gently felt around it, down the length, and determined that it hadn't severed anything. Blood gushed out every time he did that, and Sherlock made no reaction. His detective huddled against his stomach and hips, his curls obscuring his face. John worried there might be fragments, but he wouldn't be able to determine if the piece was intact until he pulled it out.

Lestrade came back, and he had the hot water and towels.

"Wet those down, and hand me one. I need to wash this blood away so I can see it clearer." John instructed, and Lestrade hurriedly did as he asked. John used the warm damp towel and gently wiped away at the blood, closely examining the wound. "Pull on a pair of gloves, and come around to his other side, hold his arm up for me."

John needed to be able to use both hands for pulling out the shard, and he couldn't do that and hold up the arm too. Lestrade quickly pulled on a pair of bright blue gloves, and carefully sat next to Sherlock. Lestrade looked slightly uncomfortable, eyeing Sherlock as if the detective might bite him for getting so close. John laughed quietly, and shot Lestrade an amused look.

"Don't worry Greg, he doesn't bite that hard." John said, and chuckled when Lestrade looked confused before his face got red in understanding. Lestrade firmly grasped Sherlock's arm, and held it up. John was able to let go, and cleaned the wound off as best he could. The blood flow had slowed, just seeping now.

"He didn't hit an artery, thankfully. I should be able to stitch him up just fine here. You got him? He might jerk away when I start."

"Um, sure. Go ahead." Lestrade didn't sound so sure, but John took him at his word, and using the forceps, took hold of the end sticking out of the flesh and swiftly pulled it out. There was no resistance, which there would have been if it had broken apart in Sherlock's hand. John dropped the shard in the hot water bowl, and wiped away at the fresh blood. He used the forceps to gently examine the wound, and he felt no contact on any smaller shards that may have been left behind when he pulled out the larger piece. Sherlock hadn't reacted at all, not even a twitch when John pulled it out. John didn't know if that should worry him or not, but he decided it didn't matter, Sherlock wasn't fighting him.

Mrs. Hudson had come in, and she was quietly sweeping up the glass from the destroyed case. John ignored her, concentrating on Sherlock. She gasped in dismay at the blood on the floor, and said something about mopping. John just hoped she'd wait until he was done.

"No fragments, nothing severed, fucking lucky, Sherlock." John knew Sherlock couldn't hear him; John was certain Sherlock was out. His pulse was steady though, John wasn't worried. John broke the seal on a sterile suture set, and he swiftly threaded one of the needles, the curved, sharp steel glinting wickedly under the light. John stitched up the injury, smirking when Lestrade had to look away, face almost as pale as Sherlock's.

"Almost done, no passing out. Two incoherent men in my bedroom would be too much." John said, and Lestrade made a face at him. The stitching was easy; John had fixed up far worse, in far nastier conditions. _No bombs going off, no dust everywhere, fingers aren't numb from the cold, and no one is shooting at me! Well, maybe not quite true on that last one._

"He's out, Greg. Tell me what happened, I didn't get much from him before he snapped." John asked as he continued to stitch the gash back together.

"Someone aimed two laser sighted sniper rifles through the window at you while you were sleeping, and at Sherlock while he was at the table. Only for a few minutes, but it was enough to make Sherlock go, well, like this." Lestrade said. Sherlock was still out, his face firmly planted in John's stomach. The fingers of his uninjured hand were still tucked under John's belt, arm limp.

"It was dreadful! Horrible! Sherlock couldn't pull his eyes off you the whole time!" Mrs. Hudson started to sniffle again, and she left the room to compose herself.

"Sounds pretty dreadful, glad I was asleep." John mused, examining his last stitch. Proud of his work, and very thankful Sherlock had cooperated, John wiped away the last of the blood, and patted the skin dry. "I'll wrap this up, give him some morphine to keep him down, some antibiotics, and he'll be fine. Well, until he punches something else, at least."

John wrapped Sherlock's hand in bandages, careful not to overdo it as Sherlock would get annoyed by it faster and rip it off. "Hold his arm for me, keep it up, we don't want it to start bleeding through the stitches." Lestrade gingerly held up Sherlock's arm, and John was touched by the care the inspector was using. John pulled off his gloves, and wiped his hands, not caring about the blood drying all over his arm, his clothing.

"Sherlock? You still passed out?" John gently ran his hands through Sherlock's curls, massaging his temples. No response. "Ok he's still out, hold him up while I get the meds ready."

Lestrade wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, and held him up while John slowly freed himself. Sherlock was limp, and John was starting to get worried, just a bit. If he had passed out normally, he should've been coming around by now, surely. John opened two sterile syringes, and knowing Sherlock's dosage by heart, filled the appropriate amounts. John sighed, and realized with Sherlock out like he was, and his shirts being tailored so exactly to his lean frame, he wouldn't be able to roll his sleeves up high enough.

"He is not going to be happy." John groaned as he got out his shears, and without hesitation, cut away at the fine white shirt. Lestrade looked amused, and John snickered softly as he gleefully stripped Sherlock down to his waist. Smooth, pale, nearly translucent skin covered lean, firm muscles, and John had to be careful he didn't get distracted. Sherlock was a gorgeous sight, even unconscious and bloody. He sterilized a spot on Sherlock's upper arm, and jabbed him quickly with the syringes. John cocked a brow at Lestrade, the inspector was nearly green, and looking away once he saw what John was doing.

"Thank you for your help, Greg. This would have been a lot harder without you." John said, putting the used syringes back in their packages, knowing he would have to dispose of them before Sherlock came back around. Can't be too careful with a recovering addict. "The morphine will keep him down while I clean up, set the room back to rights."

"Not a problem, John. Glad I could do something. I should probably check on the security detail outside." Lestrade gently lowered Sherlock to the bed, the detective unresponsive, still unconscious. Lestrade cast one last concerned look at Sherlock before quietly leaving.

John quickly cleaned up, packing his gear away. He grabbed the syringes, and ran downstairs, through Mrs. Hudson's flat, and outside to the trash bins. John looked up and down the alley, up at the roof, and saw nothing. He bent the needles against the metal bins, rendering them useless, before tossing them in the bins and dashing back inside. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock he went outside, no point in provoking his patient. He ran back upstairs, and went straight for the bedroom.

Sherlock was still out, and the morphine would have taken hold by now. John knew he hadn't needed to use it; the pain would have been manageable for Sherlock. He used it to keep Sherlock asleep, calm. Sherlock had snapped, had a minor breakdown. The pain relief was just a bonus. He knew it was dangerous, Sherlock used to be addicted to opiates. John hoped that he hadn't made a mistake.

John moved over as Mrs. Hudson came in, a damp mop in hand. She swiped it over the floor, scrubbing at the dried blood.

"John dear, get him covered up, he'll catch cold." She told him, using her best Mum-voice on him. John smiled, and tugged Sherlock until he was lined up on the bed correctly. He folded a blanket over his lover, and he would wait until Mrs. Hudson was gone before he stripped Sherlock down. She was determined to get the floor clean, and John decided to take a shower while she attacked the floor.

John took a quick shower, unwilling to leave Sherlock's side for too long. He changed into clean clothes before leaving the bathroom, glad he had, as they had another visitor. Lestrade was back, and talking quietly to Mycroft, both of them standing in the front room. John had known since Baskerville that Mycroft knew Lestrade, but he had never seen them together. John stood at the bathroom door, and just watched. Neither of them had seen him yet, and Lestrade was standing very close to Mycroft's shoulder, their heads bent, speaking low to each other. Mycroft was listening carefully, and nodding occasionally to whatever Lestrade was telling him. It was the look on Mycroft's face that made John break out into a huge smile. The elder Holmes actually looked human, face unguarded, attitude gone. Mycroft was paying attention to Lestrade with an intensity John had yet to see him use for anyone other than Sherlock. Lestrade shifted on his feet, somehow inching closer to Mycroft. John bit his lip, and backed slowly away, towards the open bedroom door, hoping to make it through without spoiling the unexpected moment he was witnessing.

_Whoa. This is surreal. Are they… what the hell are they? Not judging, no judging! Crap, Mycroft just saw me! _John nodded at Mycroft, just as he crossed the bedroom threshold. The elder Holmes stood up straight, face shuttering away, and he was instantly the Iceman again. Lestrade turned, and saw John, somehow making the fact he stepped a few feet away from Mycroft look very natural. John just held up a hand, and looked into the bedroom. Sherlock was still asleep, and his hand hadn't started to bleed again. John stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

He walked out to join them, pretending he hadn't seen a thing.

"Mycroft, wasn't expecting you." John said, looking at Sherlock's brother, wondering why he was there.

"Well, yes, I wasn't expecting snipers to send my brother into a tailspin." Mycroft's attitude was back, and John fought hard not to react. Mycroft was an ass, but that didn't mean he had to be one too. "Is he still unconscious?"

"He'll be fine. Are we safe here?" John asked, refusing to discuss Sherlock's current state.

"My men cleared the area. We found where they were, the next floor up across the street. We closed off access to that spot, the building has been restricted, and we have teams around all streets accessing Baker Street keeping watch. They will not get through again." Mycroft said, with an attitude that clearly said this was somehow, in some way John's fault.

John had an epiphany of sorts, in that moment. Mycroft had spent the entirety of his life trying to control and, in some ways, protect Sherlock. Almost as soon as Sherlock came back from the dead, Sherlock had cast off what little influence Mycroft had, and attached himself firmly to John, in a way he never had with anyone, ever. Mycroft was scared. Jealous and scared, and the bugger had the audacity to be in denial about it. He most likely believed that this was all avoidable if Sherlock hadn't gotten involved with John. For a natural-born genius, Mycroft was a complete idiot.

John ignored Mycroft, like he would a patient who was complaining about some minor ache when the guy next to him was bleeding out. Sherlock was his to care for now. Forever.

"Then I guess we'll be staying here, I'll see what Sherl' wants to do in the morning. Thank you both, I seriously appreciate it. Greg, you were invaluable, thank you. Mycroft, I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon." John nodded to both men, politely indicating they should go. Lestrade got the hint, clapping John on the shoulder as he went for the door. Mycroft just gave John a disbelieving look, like he couldn't believe he was being dismissed at all.

John just gave him a sedate smile, hands tucked into his pockets, and waited. Mycroft tried staring him down, but John had lived with Sherlock for years, and the elder Holmes had nothing on the younger. His smile got bigger as Mycroft caved, and with a small nod, he followed the Inspector out of the flat.

John sighed in relief, and went to the kitchen. He was starving, and Sherlock would be out for a long while. Fully expecting a severed head, or some thumbs, John pulled open the door, and to his everlasting relief, saw no immediate signs of human body parts. He did see the ham sandwiches, and blessing Mrs. Hudson impulse to be a mother hen, dived on them.


	25. The Things We Do For Love

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: SEX. And Violence.**

**Read on, enjoy, and review!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Five**

"_**The Things We do For Love"**_

Something was wrong. The world felt different. His city was gone, the terrain foreign, alien. There was a weight, a pressure, heat and pain. He could not find the path, the road beneath his feet hidden under a white blanket of nothingness. This wasn't right, and he fought back, striking at the fog surrounding him. It came for him, threatening to pull him under again, fingers of white, snakelike tendrils grasping, tearing away at his thoughts. He struggled, anger rising up in him, shouting his defiance. The fog retreated, light shining through, bright cracks in the ceiling of the sunless sky.

Sherlock breathed in deep, the air chasing away the fog, and he clenched his fists, pushing against the weight that pressed down on him. Pain shot through him, and he screamed, determined to win.

"Sherlock! You're okay! Wake up!" That sound, it was a beacon, familiar and vital. He needed it, and he fought harder, reaching for the light.

_I know that voice… who….. NO! John!_

Sherlock woke so quickly the sunlight seared his eyes, the world spinning as it centered itself, and his head hurt as he fought back against the strangle-hold the drugs had on him. John was holding him down, both of them in bed, John's hands firmly planted on his shoulders, as Sherlock strained against him.

"John?" Sherlock gasped, and he dropped his arms, his hands falling to the pillow. One of his hands hurt, and he turned to look, and saw his hand wrapped up, a white bandage swiftly being stained red with blood. "John?"

"It's ok, I swear you're ok. Just breathe, love. Take it easy, relax." John eased up his hold, sitting back slightly, rubbing his hands soothingly on Sherlock's chest. "I'll tell you everything, just relax."

John kept rubbing him, as Sherlock panted, eyes slightly wild, as he searched the room, picking up details from the night before out of pure habit, and recognizing the telltale hangover like symptoms he was experiencing. He was accustomed to the side effects of the drug, and he adapted swiftly. He hadn't used it for a long time, but his body remembered. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor, and John swallowed nervously at the look Sherlock was giving him.

"Did you dose me with morphine last night?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes." John said, determined not to cave under the glinting fire in his detective's eyes.

Sherlock eyed John, and saw the fear, exhaustion, the worry written in the lines around John's eyes. His hands were still touching him, gentle slides across his chest and stomach. Whatever had happened last night after the snipers freed them had left its mark on the doctor. Sherlock felt a gnawing worry spiral up from his gut, and he felt the blood drain from his face in apprehension.

"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"No! God no, why would you think so?" John said, lifting a hand to push back a wayward curl from Sherlock's eyes. His finger felt amazing on Sherlock's skin, and he leaned into the touch.

Sherlock cast a look at his bloody hand, and then back to John. Something had happened last night, something bad enough that John had felt it important to dose a recovering addict with his personal poison of choice. Sherlock knew he hadn't taken the drugs the night before; the flat was clean, totally. He hadn't gotten anything new since his return, and it had been empty before the Fall.

"Oh, Christ. You don't remember last night do you?" John asked, and he rubbed at his face, looking frustrated. Sherlock shook his head, and got even more confused when John flung himself back down on the bed, snuggling up to his shoulder, being careful not to jolt his hurt hand.

"The snipers freaked you out, you had a small mental break of some kind, dragged me in here, screamed and shouted about feeling helpless, then smashed that specimen case, twice, and the last time you stabbed your hand, which I then fixed up with some help from Lestrade." John stated it all so calmly, as if things like that happened every day. "Oh, and Lestrade and Mycroft came over. I said hi, they secured the flat and apparently the whole of Westminster, and Mrs. Hudson made sandwiches. And yes, I gave you morphine, to keep you under. You passed out once I started fixing your hand."

"Oh." Sherlock let the warmth and touch of a very naked doctor relax him, dropping an arm around John, pulling him closer. Sherlock went over everything John said, and he was annoyed that he didn't remember any of it, nothing after shutting the door to the bedroom. "You sure I didn't hurt you?"

"You didn't hurt me at all. All you did was hurt yourself, and we can finally say goodbye to that disgusting spider display that was in the case." John said, calm as can be. "You had some kind of break, and passed out as Greg and I patched you up."

"Who?" Sherlock asked absently, sniffing at the wonderful scent coming from John's hair. His doctor was naked, and so was he, and Sherlock felt his body take notice, rather urgently.

"Lestrade, you loon." John said, and threw a leg over Sherlock's hip. John noticed the state Sherlock was in, and chuckled. Sherlock grinned, and figured everything must be all right, as John's hand had started to wander down his chest, over his stomach. Sherlock knew where John was going, and he felt his heart race in anticipation.

John moved his leg, and let his hand wrap around Sherlock's cock, stroking it slowly. Sherlock groaned, and lifted his hips, tightening his arm around John. Sherlock closed his eyes, as John got him harder, and he lifted his hips just slightly, in time with his doctor's clever hands. John was moving down, pushing off the covers. Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes just in time to see John slip his mouth over his cock. John looped an arm over his thighs, holding him down, and lifted his head, mouth sucking hard. He caught Sherlock's eye, and held his gaze as he swallowed Sherlock all the way, the head of his cock nudging the back of John's throat.

Sherlock let out a low moan, determined not to close his eyes. He wanted to watch this, needed to watch John please him. The doctor wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock, and as his mouth would lift away, sucking hard up towards the head, his fingers would follow close behind. Mouth and fingers tight, John stroked back down, swallowing, tongue licking inside his mouth along the underside of his lover's cock.

Sherlock let a hand float down, and he grasped the back of John's neck, squeezing gently in approval, encouraging John to keep going. John deep-throated him again, eyes burning brightly in satisfaction as Sherlock moaned each time. Again and again John tortured him, finding the perfect pace. Sherlock felt that glorious sensation start to build in him, and his toes began to curl. His skin shivered in the cool morning air, and he got bigger, harder. John's wet, hot, wonderful mouth was the best thing in the entire world. He twitched, in response to John's hand working its way under him, fingers sliding around his ass. Sherlock knew where John was going, and lifted his hips, letting John press a finger firmly to him. John just held the pressure there, waiting on something. His finger felt wonderful, and Sherlock couldn't stop himself, his eyes drifted shut, and he let John touch him, however he wanted. John was in control of him, totally holding him under his spell. Mouth, hands, that one strong finger working into his ass, Sherlock was helpless to them all.

He felt it, as it started to build, calming just before it crashed over him; that sensation he knew was an orgasm. He had no control, no experience in how to encourage it to fill him up, to make it happen faster. All he could do was trust John, that his love would know what he needed, how to give it to him. John's mouth was a miracle, and the wet sliding of his strong tongue over the head of his cock made Sherlock jerk. John pushed his finger in deep, and Sherlock knew it was happening. His finger touched a spot inside him, a place that lit the dynamite that destroyed the dam. Sherlock screamed, the sound bouncing off the bedroom walls.

The wave spilled free, and Sherlock was drowning under it, uncaring, as his body spasmed, John sucking deeply as Sherlock came in his mouth. John groaned, and thrust that finger into Sherlock again, making his detective jerk in response, another thick shot filling his mouth. Sherlock was lost, tumbled under the waves of pleasure that crashed into his mind. Every suck and lick of John's mouth made him spasm, and John pulled his hand away, moving his mouth carefully, easily. Soothing his love, as Sherlock swam back to reality.

John licked up every drop, the taste of his detective strong on his tongue. John lifted away, and rested against Sherlock's hip. Sherlock could do nothing but lay there, trembling in the morning light from the window, trying to get air back into his body. John crawled back up to him, and Sherlock hugged him to his chest, finding his lips, eyes still shut. Sherlock kissed John, tasting traces of his release in his lover's mouth, thanking John as best he could with his tongue and lips.

John kissed him back, hands holding tight to Sherlock's shoulders, laying on top of his detective. John pulled back, and Sherlock could just manage to crack his eyes open enough to see the smug satisfaction on John's face. Sherlock smiled, fighting off the urge to sleep. His eyes were heavy, and John smiled at him, knowingly. He reached down for the blankets, and Sherlock held him tight, keeping John resting on top of him. The blankets fell over them both, and John tucked his head under Sherlock's chin, snuggling beneath the covers. The warm weight of his doctor in his arms swayed Sherlock under, and a part of him knew John was smiling as he fell back asleep.

….

This time when he woke up, he knew where he was, and that John was wrapped up in his arms. The sun had shifted, the light angled away from the bed, no longer shining in his eyes. Sherlock looked at the man still laying half on him, his solid weight comforting. He couldn't tell if John was awake or not, and he rubbed his jaw in his doctor's soft hair.

Sherlock pondered his current situation, realizing that his life was so vastly different, and yet so similar, to how it used to be. John was in his life, so deeply ingrained Sherlock knew he was rendered anew. He had become so vital, so quickly, that Sherlock knew he could never walk away again. That sensation that stirred in him only in response to John swept in from his extremities, rushing across his mind, and Sherlock held John tighter.

"I love you." He whispered, burying his nose in the sandy blonde hair, streaked with grey. It didn't matter if John could hear him, he had to say it. Like drawing air in to live, Sherlock had to tell John he loved him.

John stirred, arms hugging him, leg tightening around Sherlock's. Some part of him must be aware enough to have heard, and he snuggled in deeper under the covers. Sherlock pulled John fully on top of him, not bothered at all by the doctor's weight. John wasn't a large man by any means, but he had muscles, and he was heavier than he looked. Sherlock let John treat him like a pillow, absorbing and sharing their body heat. The sun might be warm, but the days were steadily getting colder, winter coming on strong this year. The bedroom was chilly, and Sherlock knew the floor was freezing.

John slowly woke up, having fallen back asleep after their earlier adventure. He turned his head and rested his chin on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watched as John blinked away the cobwebs, his dark eyes focusing on Sherlock's. John smiled at him, that sweet smile he never showed anyone else. Sherlock lifted his hand, and traced the fine lines next to his doctor's eyes, down his nose, across his lips, before cupping his face. Sherlock kissed him, light and chaste, and pulled back to catch another sweet smile. He smiled back, neither needing words to let the other know what they were feeling, thinking. The passion between them was quiet, simmering gently in the background, and they were content to snuggle, relaxed.

John brought a hand up, buried it in his curls, tugging one lock out straight, watching as it sprang back to a tight curl once he let it go. He kept doing this, thoroughly absorbed. Sherlock let him, growing amused by the fact his doctor loved to do something so silly. John particularly liked the one that always fell over Sherlock's brow, and John smiled, realizing that it was far longer than he thought. If Sherlock's hair wasn't so curly, it would reach inches past his ears in some places.

John played with his hair for what felt like forever, until Sherlock brought up his injured hand, and he saw the state of the bandage. Sherlock grimaced in distaste, as he must have ripped a stitch. The blood had seeped through all the way, and it had dried nearly black in the center. John grabbed his hand, and got an annoyed look on his face before sitting up, and rolling off of Sherlock.

"Well, that didn't last long, now did it?" John grumbled, leaning off the side of the bed, digging for his bag. Sherlock rolled over, propping his head on his uninjured hand. Knowing full well John was going to want his hand looked at, he plopped it down next to John on the bed with a dramatic sigh.

"Looks like you ripped a stitch, love. I'll need to change this out, clean it off." John said, as he cut away the ruined gauze. Sherlock cast a quick glance at John, wondering if John even noticed the endearment. He had a feeling John had called him 'love' at least a few times already, and thought it peculiar. Not in a bad way, just a he's-never-called-me-that-before way.

"'Love'?" Sherlock asked quietly, watching as John carefully pulled away the gauze where the blood had dried it to his skin. It hurt, but Sherlock punted the pain away, letting it fade until he didn't even feel it. John paused for a second before he spoke.

"Um, yeah, sorry. Wasn't thinking." John said, sounding mildly embarrassed. "Do you mind? I'll stop if you do."

"No, it's fine. Really." Sherlock murmured, relaxing into the mattress, curving himself around John where he sat on the edge of the bed. "No one but my mother or Mrs. Hudson has ever called me that, but it's fine."

"Did you just compare me to your mother?" John laughed, looking at Sherlock.

"Possibly. Limited understanding, odd habits, like making me eat and sleep. There's a resemblance." Sherlock smirked, and ducked his head when John playfully swatted at him. John glared at him, but it melted away when Sherlock smiled and curved closer. He rubbed Sherlock's curls, and the doctor went back to tending his hand.

"Yeah you pulled a stitch, not too badly though. It's slightly inflamed; I'll give you some more antibiotics in a bit." John wiped at his cut with an antiseptic swab, cleaning away the dried blood between his fingers. The doctor was gentle, and did his work with smooth skill. Sherlock felt all warm and fuzzy, and he was ready to fall back asleep from the sensation John was invoking in him.

"Hhhhmmmm." He mumbled, snaking his free arm around the other man's waist, his long form wrapped tightly to John's back and hips. Sherlock nuzzled his face into his lover's hip, and sighed in contentment.

"Comfortable, I see." John said over his head, wrapping his hand. Sherlock just hummed happily, dosing off, John's scent and salty skin against his lips making him very interested in staying where he was. Right up until he felt a cold alcohol swab and a sharp needle stick in his upper arm.

"Bloody hell! John!" His happy mood gone, Sherlock jerked at the unexpected jab. He rolled away from John as he lifted the syringe from his arm. Sherlock growled under his breath, and John ignored him, putting the needle back in its sterile wrapping, throwing it on the nightstand.

"No sulking, I did say I was going to give you a shot." He smiled at Sherlock's pout, and laughed when Sherlock pulled the covers over his head, grumbling about evil doctors and torture devices. "None of that now, love." John lifted the corner, and peeked underneath. He caught a glimpse of dark curls, and the flash of jewel-bright eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Sherlock pretended not to notice when John snuggled back under the covers, rolling over and trying to ignore the strong arm that roped around his hips. John pressed himself fully against Sherlock, groin snug and flush with the detective's ass. He tried his best to ignore the hand that found his cock and started to rub, with gentle strokes. He tried, but his body came roaring to life, and he heard John chuckle into his shoulder. John was aroused, and Sherlock groaned when John thrust his hips a little, rubbing his cock on his ass.

"I think it's my turn, Sherlock." John whispered in his ear, kissing his neck.

Sherlock moaned once, as John pushed harder. Tense with need, Sherlock was shaking in tiny tremors from John's hand stroking his full length, masterful fingers pulling and tugging. John was suddenly gone, rolling away from Sherlock, leaving him gasping and wondering what his doctor was doing.

"John? What…" He gasped, as John had rolled back, and Sherlock felt John's fingers grasping at his buttocks. He knew instantly where John had gone to so briefly, as a very well lubricated finger pushed its way into him. John must have had lubricant of some kind in his bag, and Sherlock got even more excited. It was dark and warm under the covers, and Sherlock felt surrounded by his doctor, his hands and mouth seemingly everywhere.

"I'm a very well prepared doctor." John growled in his ear, making Sherlock grin.

Strong fingers pushed into him, two at first, and then three. Sherlock relaxed fully, thrusting his hips back at John, eager for more. He was getting impatient, wanting John inside him. John teased him, his fingers pulling out all the way, only to push firmly back in.

"John!" Sherlock demanded, and John kissed the back of his neck, sucking lightly.

"Patience." He whispered back, and he pulled his fingers away one last time. John lined himself up, and with one strong thrust of his hips, buried himself to the hilt inside of Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't think; he could do nothing but hold on to the arm wrapped securely around him. John rocked his hips slowly, refusing to go fast, taking his lover at a deep, steady pace. John moved against Sherlock's back, his whole body rubbing and touching his detective. Sherlock was reduced to a moaning, quivering pile of limbs and loose muscles, helpless under John's strong hands, his powerful hips. All of John's years of sexual experience told him the perfect rhythm, and he used it on his lover. Deep, slow thrusts, filling Sherlock all the way, pausing for half a heartbeat before slowly pulling out. The head of his cock slipped in and out of Sherlock's tight hole, and Sherlock whimpered deep in his throat as John timed his thrusts back in with strokes to Sherlock's cock.

John was determined to take care of Sherlock. He angled is hips, plunging himself deeper, rubbing the head of his cock on the other man's prostate. He could do this forever, fucking the most perfect person in this world, this perfect man in his arms. John groaned, and knew he was getting ready. He worked Sherlock faster, giving Sherlock the hard fucking his body was begging for. Sherlock swelled in his hands, and tightened around his cock. Sherlock came, and John plunged faster, moaning and grunting as he thrust deeper, Sherlock coming hard around his cock.

Sherlock was shouting, face buried in a pillow, body convulsing in waves of release and pleasure. He was helpless as John fucked him hard, no control over his body. He came so hard he was sobbing, and John chose that moment to orgasm as well, deep shots pumping into Sherlock. Both men clung to each other, rocking as they climaxed; John buried deep, his hand stroking Sherlock as he came on the sheets. John groaned loudly, his cock pulsing in time to Sherlock's quivering body.

John held Sherlock as the younger man shook and clung to him. John hugged him tightly, comforting Sherlock as he tried to recover from the powerful orgasm. He was shaking, hands clutching at John's arms. John slowly and gently withdrew from Sherlock, kissing his lover as Sherlock jumped in response. Sherlock had come so hard he couldn't handle it. He was sobbing quietly, overcome. John turned Sherlock to him, and pulled until the younger man buried himself in his chest. He hugged him, running a hand through dark, soft curls, soothing.

"Shush, it's okay, you're fine. Shhh…." John whispered to him, running a hand up and down the detective's back. "The big ones can do that, it's okay, sshhhhh…"

Sherlock eventually stopped shivering, and he snuck an arm out and hugged John back, snuggling deeper into his embrace. John smiled, and held his detective, both of them still hiding under the blankets, the world shut out, just the two of them, and their love.

* * *

Lestrade checked his mobile again, for twelfth time in the last hour. He couldn't help it; even when he put it away, intending not to look unless it went off, he would forget, and impatiently check for a message. He was sitting at his desk in his office, and he heard the sounds of a busy day through the door. He couldn't concentrate on the cases in front of him, nor the paperwork needing his signature.

Lestrade sighed at himself, he knew he was being stupid, but he couldn't resist anymore. He gave up, and went back into his Inbox, and scrolled through the texts from the night before. He zipped past all the work related ones, the ones from Donovan demanding to know what was going on. He skipped the ones from the surveillance teams, and the guards stationed on Baker Street. He kept going, until he got to the last one, the one from the man at MI6.

**Goodnight, Detective Inspector. –MH**

The Inspector stared at it, and felt this tiny spark of something flash in his chest. He hadn't been happy for so long, not since the debacle of a marriage that had ended a couple of years back. Not since Sherlock Fell. Since he had last seen Mycroft Holmes. He hardly recognized it, so foreign to him was the emotion.

Lestrade had been happy only once more recently, and that was when a certain consulting detective ambushed him in the precinct's garage. Sherlock had so brazenly stepped from the shadows, all cool looking and so obviously not dead that Lestrade had skipped past the anger and went straight to thankful. Sherlock's face as he hugged him had been priceless, too.

Lestrade knew he was being stupid. He really did. He knew his fascination with his friend's big brother was pointless, immature, and guaranteed to get him embarrassed and hurt. Back when he first met Sherlock, damn near nine years ago now, he had very quickly been introduced to the specter that was Mycroft Holmes. A call had come down from on high, he had found himself escorted to a black car, and then shuffled off to a clandestine meeting with the man who would quickly become something of an obsession.

Lestrade had played it cool, and had listened quietly to the man who introduced himself as the older brother of the very intelligent and highly irritating 'consulting detective' he had met just that morning. Lestrade was no fool, regardless of what Sherlock might think. He knew power when he saw it, and knew very well that Mycroft Holmes would be a powerful enemy, or a beneficial friend. And so it had been proven, over the years.

If he looked after Sherlock, and let him 'assist' (which quickly became take over, and let Lestrade catch the glory) on cases, then Mycroft would cover for his brother's errant behavior, and protect Lestrade in turn.

Lestrade hadn't seen the harm, he really hadn't. Sherlock had solved in one hour a case that had stumped the best of them for a week. And done it in such a way as to offend everyone, but be so bloody right no one really did anything about the annoying aspect. Sherlock had then swanned off, ignoring the glares from insulted officers, and told Lestrade to call him when he needed help again. And Lestrade had needed him, and he did indeed call.

And so began a relationship that was still awkward and annoying and precarious, but Lestrade found himself loving the irascible consultant. Not that he would EVER tell Sherlock that. Nor would he ever mention the happiness that he'd experience when Mycroft would text him, call him, summon him for reports or to give him instructions.

Greg Lestrade was a man happy to be in a state of denial, because he knew if he tried to be anything more to the elder Holmes besides a nanny for his brother, Mycroft would disappear. Lestrade knew, and he just stayed in this frustrating place, pretending he was happy, putting up a front. He lived alone in this place of random happiness, as he lived alone in the cold empty flat he used to call home.

Lestrade looked at the text, and he wondered what it meant. Mycroft had never, ever texted anything like this before to him. Ever. What did it mean? Sure, Mycroft would chat with him sometimes, always polite, but nice. They would talk for a long time, about anything. He was nice to him, when he had no reason to be, and from everything he saw in how he acted with others, including his own blood, Mycroft Holmes wasn't nice. So why was he nice to a forty-something detective inspector from Scotland Yard?

Lestrade bit his lip, and rubbed his thumb over the text. He sighed, and just stared at it. Wondering.

* * *

The day was cold, but the sun was warm, not much help as it rarely came out from behind the clouds. The morning had been sunny, but as the day continued on, it had quickly gotten colder, and winter was heavy on the horizon. The autumn had been cold so far, and getting colder, far colder than was usual for London. The sun was bright and glaring when it slashed through the clouds, warming those below briefly before the wind whipped up, and the shadows returned.

The two women were bundled up against the wind, stylish and sexy in their long black coats. They had black hats on, and Mary smiled at the matching picture they made. Mary tucked her chin into her collar, glad Death's men had packed up her cold weather gear. Winter was most definitely coming early this year.

Death stood beside her, her long mahogany hair braided back, and tucked under her black hat. The brim was pulled low, obscuring her face, and her collar was up as well. They stood just down the street from Scotland Yard, confident that the CCTV feeds wouldn't catch them where they were at.

"When are your men going to be ready?" Mary asked, and she kept scanning the street, making sure no one was taking particular note of her unless she wanted them too. Death was listening to her teams on an earpiece hidden beneath her hat. She would tell Mary once they were in position, the drivers getting ready to provide each woman with an escape.

"Soon. Yours will be the most arduous, are you certain you still wish to do it?" Death asked her, and her wild eyes glanced at Mary, at odds with the concern in her voice. Mary nodded, knowing Death was right to be worried, especially after last night.

They had broken into the building across from 221B the night before. Mary remembered with glee the stricken look on Sherlock's face as she slowly, and very menacingly, put the laser sight over his heart with her sniper rifle. Death had held hers on John, and Mary had been glad for it. Death had impeccable control, whereas Mary might have accidentally pulled the trigger, just from seeing John sleeping in his chair in his lover's flat. Her anger had been so overwhelming that Mary had to struggle not to pull the trigger herself, and end Holmes where he sat at the table. It was Death's voice from the darkness next to her, saying that they needed to go, that had roped her emotions under control. They had made their point. She knew it, and Death knew it. And from the look on Holmes' face, he knew it too.

It wasn't until they had returned to the estate outside London that Mary's body had betrayed her, as she got violently ill, vomiting up her supper. Death had rubbed her back, saying nothing. Mary knew she was conflicted; killing for vengeance, for revenge, had never been her way. She got paid to take out targets, and she did with callous efficiency. Or she used too. Killing for emotional reasons was an alien concept to her. But after tonight, she would have no trouble. Experiencing something was the only way to adapt to it.

"I'll be fine. I'll see you at the estate once I'm done. Have fun with yours." Mary turned, and disappeared into the crowds.

Today they would let London experience their rage. The city would burn until Holmes was dead.

* * *

Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. John was drying off, and the air in the hallway was frigid compared to the warm mist from the shower. Sherlock didn't care that he was naked, he fully planned on getting back into bed.

Sherlock cast a vaguely nervous glance towards the front room, avoiding the windows where the noonday sun filtered in. He had a haunting recollection of slamming the bedroom door shut last night, the echoes from the noise bouncing in the hall, and his memory. Sherlock lost all memory of what happened after that point, and that made him very nervous. He refused to show it, knowing it would only worry John, and make him question Sherlock's sanity. As he was questioning it.

Having a panic induced breakdown was slightly different than what Sherlock feared had really happened. Sherlock was afraid he had gotten so frightened, so overwhelmingly terrified at his helplessness, at his inability to protect John, that he had deleted it. Everything from the second he slammed the door last night to the fog dream just before he woke up that morning. All of it deleted. Gone. Deleted out of an instinctual desire to protect himself.

He hadn't lost control of his mind palace like that since he was a child, and first learning to use it. For him to delete an experience as he lived it was very troublesome. Sherlock felt fine now; he truly did. Cautious, yes, but not afraid. So whatever it was that he had felt last night, it was too much for him to handle. Using his emotions was going to be far more problematic than he had anticipated.

John opened the door behind him, and nearly ran into him.

"Sherl', why are you standing naked in the hall?" John asked, walking around him into the bedroom. Sherlock followed behind him, smirking at another nickname that John was using without noticing.

"It's my hall." Sherlock said, throwing himself back on the bed, not bothering with the blankets. John threw him a look that clearly said he knew better, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. John jumped up on the bed next to him, laying out beside his detective in much the same pose.

"So, Sherl', is it safe to stay here or should we be thinking about moving?" John asked, hands on his stomach, looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock hummed quietly, and John tossed him a look when he didn't answer. "Seeing as how two crazy assassins decided to throw a laser show in the flat."

John nudged him with his elbow. No response.

Sherlock had stopped listening, the word 'moving' circling in his head. John saw his face, and just watched him, waiting. He knew that look. Moving from the flat had evoked thoughts of trying to find a new place to live, which had then spawned the thought of houses, buildings, places people choose to live, to go home to. Packing up belongings, gear, tools. Chose to be at…..

_How did this all begin? Not with Moriarty, not with Mary. How did this begin….Blackwood. Why use Blackwood to announce your intentions to the world? They went there, to that specific place. I thought it was because of the isolated location, so that they could stage such a dramatic show without interruption. And I know that's part of it. But how did Death know about Blackwood? No one knew about it, the world had forgotten it existed. So how does she know about it? And why did she pick that place? And the boat, the one they used getting to Blackwood, where is the boat? Did no one look for the boat? I told Lestrade to find the boat, didn't I? It could have been rented, stolen, or it could be owned…_

Sherlock sat up abruptly, eyes wild, excited. John sat up too, curious. He had waited patiently while Sherlock processed whatever epiphanies he was having. John waited, holding his breath. It was big, whatever it was. Sherlock turned to him, and John felt a thrill of excitement race down his spine at the satisfaction and delight in Sherlock's eyes.

"John, you are a miracle." Sherlock reached out, grabbed his head, and gave him a crushing kiss full on the lips before leaping off the bed. "A bastion of revelations! Unrivalled in this world!"

Sherlock tore out of the bedroom, and John crawled off the bed, chasing after his very excited, and very naked, lover. Sherlock dashed to his coat, tearing through his pockets for his mobile. John glanced at the windows, and bit back a grin. He really hoped the surveillance teams stationed on the roof across the street weren't choosing this particular moment to look in the flat. Sherlock had found his mobile, and he was excitedly calling someone. Still totally naked.

"C'mon, answer! Dammit! Lestrade!" Sherlock was nearly shouting, so thrilled was he at finally getting through. "Shut up! Listen! _Did you find the boat they used at Blackwood_?"

Sherlock stressed that question, everything seeming to hinge on Lestrade's answer. John watched as Sherlock's face went from dementedly hopeful to outrageously exasperated in milliseconds.

"Dear God man! Find it! I told you the specifications for the boat before I left that day, must I do it all? Find the boat, we may yet find the disciple! Call me immediately, no waiting!"

Sherlock hung up, and John was about to ask before he saw Sherlock was dialing yet again. It rang, going long enough without being answered that Sherlock was pacing in frustration and impatience.

"Mycroft! Stop spying on Asia and find out who used to own Blackwood Chemical, the place where Death staged her debut." Sherlock was still pacing, and John was thinking he might want to close the drapes. "Yes, of course I'm fine! What do you mean? No, I don't need you to come over, John's here, I'm perfectly fine. Find out who owned Blackwood, all I know is that the place was condemned after the owner died twenty years back. I don't recall who the owner actually was."

Sherlock turned to John, who was closing the drapes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his doctor being so close to the windows, but John didn't see him and Sherlock was distracted by his older brother being his usual pain in the arse-ness. "Just do it. Call me."

Sherlock ended the call, and only then did he notice he was still very naked. It was rather chilly in the flat, and the doors were all open. John had closed the drapes, and Sherlock figured out why once he thought about it. He felt slightly out of sorts about the surveillance teams seeing him naked, but he figured they were the spies; they had most likely seen worse.

"Hmmmm, pants." Sherlock mumbled to himself, and walked back down the hall. John followed behind him, impatient and wanting to know what was going on.

"Okay, I got most of that from your half of the conversations. You figure we find the boat, we may find a clue as to identity and location, and we find out who owned Blackwood, we might find out how Death knew to use it?" John said, as Sherlock pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms. John smiled when he saw Sherlock raid John's undershirts for a shirt to wear, pulling one on instead of going two more feet to his closet and grabbing one of his own.

"Yes, John, exactly. We may get very lucky, and Death has been careless enough to leave a trail to where she is hiding, or even who she is." Sherlock still clung to his mobile, glaring at it every few seconds as it stubbornly refused to ring. He stalked out of the bedroom and John huffed in annoyance. Once Sherlock got this antsy, it was almost impossible to slow him down to normal human speeds.

Sherlock planted himself in his chair, his mobile perched on his knee, still stubbornly silent. John threw himself in his chair, and grabbed the nearest paper. Sherlock was fidgeting, fingers drumming on his knee. Sherlock needed a new case, and badly. One that didn't involve pyscho ex-fiancés and disciples. John looked out around the paper occasionally at his lover, and each time Sherlock was staring at the mobile, brows furrowed, willing it to ring.

They sat like that for a while, before John got bored. He peeked over the top of the page, and looked at Sherlock. He still hadn't moved. Still staring at the stubbornly silent mobile. John laughed, and went back to reading, sinking deeper into his seat and propping his feet up on the edge of Sherlock's chair. He sat like that for a few minutes, and he jumped when he felt long fingers wrap themselves around one of his ankles. John smiled, and kept on reading, enjoying the thumb rubbing circles on his skin.

* * *

Sally Donovan was late, and she hated being late. She had left the Yard earlier to question a witness, and Lestrade had called her on her way back, telling her not to bother going home, to just come back in. She held back from telling him that she had no plans to go home, that all she was going to do there was watch crap telly and drink herself to sleep.

Sherlock Holmes, again. She knew it. Always that man. He was aggravating and just plain weird. And Lestrade followed that man's lead like he was the Detective Inspector, and not a busy body civilian who always mangled things. Never mind that he was always right, and he closed more cases than any single detective at Scotland Yard. Sally hated him, and she wasn't afraid to show it.

Well, she used to hate him. Two years ago, she and her friend-with-benefits Anderson had been convinced, so absolutely convinced, that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, a liar, and a psychopath bent on breaking all the laws she held dear. She had done her best to convince Lestrade, but in the end she had only partially succeeded. She had to go around Lestrade, to his superiors, and finally gotten someone to listen.

Then the world ended. Sherlock had evaded capture along with his partner Dr Watson, and the very next day committed suicide from the roof of St Bart's. He had died, and it was so unexpected, so obviously against everything she had believed about Holmes, that it left her foundering in disbelief. Never had she expected such an action from Holmes. Complaining, bickering, whining, and yelling, yes. But suicide? It had hurt, so badly was she shaken.

And the month after? When she had been with Lestrade that day he dropped by 221B to see if John Watson was okay? That day haunted her. Haunted her so badly that when she got home that night, she had downed an entire bottle of wine trying to rid herself of the image of a soul-bereft man. John Watson had been a hallow shell of a man, a body without heart or higher thought. He had talked, moved, responded to questions, but there had been no person behind his eyes. The death of his partner had destroyed the man she had always thought to be misguided, but still a decent man. Still a good person. And she had contributed to the destruction of his world, no matter how right she had thought she was to do so at the time. Sally had felt her convictions, her steadfast belief that Holmes had been a lie falter in the face of John Watson's grief. And she was haunted, guilt following her with every step.

When she had the misfortune this past week to see John Watson again in person, her guilt had come flooding out of her soul, compounded by the fact that Holmes had been exonerated by her own superiors just weeks earlier. Sherlock Holmes had been everything he had claimed to be from the very beginning, and she had let her personal prejudices distort her judgment, and sour her reputation. And to see the righteous anger and fury on John Watson's face had felt like a well-deserved slap in the face. She took the punishment she dealt herself in silence, refraining from stepping back into old habits, because she deserved Watson's anger, and Holmes' indifference. She deserved it all.

Sally exited the cab just outside the front of Scotland Yard, pausing to catch her scarf as the wind threatened to carry it away. The weather had steadily gotten worse from the lovely morning the day had started with, and she looked up at the sky in apprehension. Surely it was too early for snow, but the wind was so cold it felt like it could start any minute. The sun couldn't decide whether it wanted to stay hidden, or keep shining. Sally didn't see the woman in front of her until it was too late, walking into her and bumping off of the other woman.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't see you. Are you okay?" Sally asked, incredibly embarrassed. She had trouble seeing the other woman's face, as she was bundled up against the cold in a high collared coat and low black hat.

"Oh, I'm just fine, dear. But you are not so lucky." She said, reaching up to tilt the rim of her hat back, revealing the face of Sybil Moran.

Sally was briefed just that morning by Lestrade, and she knew the face of the most wanted woman in Europe well from the pictures Lestrade had given her. She was beautiful, and the mania in her eyes made Sally snap out of her shock and reach for her gun. Her hand went to her hip, but she felt nothing. Sally looked down, and saw her gun, and its holster, were gone. Just gone. Sally looked up, and caught a glimpse of a maniacal smile contorting Moran's lovely face before she faltered. Sally tried to move, tried to reach out and grab the other woman's arm. She tried, she truly did.

Nothing was working right. Her fingers were numb, and Sally couldn't remember why she was so upset. Why was she scared? Why was that woman scaring her?

Death caught Sargent Donovan's arm as the other woman began to pass out under the effects of the drug she had administered during her well-timed collision. She hadn't felt a thing, the needle sliding effortlessly into her side, as Death grabbed her weapon and pocketed it.

One of her men joined her, and placed an arm around the policewoman's waist. Holding her up like she was getting a hug from a friend. There they stood in front of Scotland Yard, and no one saw the imminent danger that Sally Donovan was in. Death nodded to her man, and waved him off to the black car that had pulled up behind them at the curb. He got in, carrying the unresponsive policewoman with him. No one saw, no one stopped them.

Death smiled, and turned towards the corner of the building, where several CCTV cameras were pointing down on the square in front of Scotland Yard. She deliberately moved into the line of sight of the closest, and reached up, and pulled off her hat. Her braid fell down her back, and she looked directly into the camera. She smiled her most lovely, gracious mile, and nodded once, before donning the hat, and sedately getting in her car. She pulled the door shut behind her, and the powerful engine growled as the car leapt away from Scotland Yard. Countless police officers within shouting distance, and all of them useless.

How easily she had stolen one of their own. Now it was Mary's turn.

* * *

Mary counted until ten, and then moved down the hall. The camera above her panned down the hall in the opposite direction, and she waiting until it was sweeping back before she moved again. She moved with a fluid grace, having done something like this many, many times before. She used to call it the 'Camera Dance' when she was younger, bored with routine break-ins and the killing of old men. She had even danced the waltz once, almost getting caught in her silliness. The guard she had to knife who caught her playing had cooled her mirth, settling her back down into the right mindset.

Once you knew the beat, the rhythm of these cameras, you could always get through. It was the stationary ones that were really tricky. Especially in long hallways with no doors.

This was easy. This was the maintenance corridor of CAM Headquarters in London. She was on the 31st floor, and this corridor was only monitored by the sweeping cameras. She had poured over the intelligence she had gotten from Death, and she knew exactly where she was going. She waited those last few seconds, and slipped into the guard station at the end of the hall. It was break time, and one of the guards was downstairs in the lobby, hitting on a hot barista and getting a pastry his arteries didn't need. Mary walked in silently, and the one remaining guard was unconscious quickly, the butt of her pistol making a dull thud in the quiet room. He slumped in his chair in front of the camera monitors, and Mary rolled him out of the way, into the corner.

Mary looked quickly over the screens, trying to find her target. He was nowhere on the office level, and she scanned through the screens, assessing and dismissing them one by one.

_There! I've got you, you rat bastard! _Mary grinned, her lips pulling up into a menacing smile. It was time to get vengeance. This was the man who had kidnapped John, and almost burned him alive, just to see if Sherlock Holmes would give a shit. He had spilled the truth of her existence to her former masters, destroying her life once she was no longer potentially useful. He was going to die. And there was no one to stop her.

Mary accessed the cameras, disabling them all. She then turned to the hard drives and servers in the corner of the room, and inserted the block of C4 deep inside the cooling cabinet, in the shadows where no one would see it. Once she was done, she would detonate the explosives. No chance of the stray camera shot of her being here would survive, and one would be able to see what was going on if they came in here before she was gone.

Mary grabbed the back of the security guard's chair, the man still limp and unresponsive. She pulled him out into the hall, and dragged him down the far end, pushing him into a small maintenance closet and shutting the door. She had an issue with collateral damage, and if he stayed in the security room once she blew the charge, he would die. His partner wasn't due back for another forty minutes. Plenty of time.

She jogged down the hall, and found the access to the ventilation. This was a large building wide system, and the air ducts were more similar to elevator shafts than those found in residential homes. They even came with very sturdy metal ladders, perfect for the intrepid assassin to get around in.

Mary knew she had to move fast, Magnussen was in his bedroom, presumably changing for dinner. She climbed swiftly, going to the residence level faster this way than taking the stairs. Mary wasn't fazed by the great drop below her, nor the whirring of fans and the drone of machinery. She stopped, and pushed on the panel she needed. It opened easily, and she dropped into the A/C maintenance room for this level. She was four rooms down from Magnussen's bedroom, and she needed to be there before he came out. There was only one way out of his room, but once he entered the hall he had multiple exits.

Mary opened the door, and peeked out, looking both ways. Magnussen only had two guards in his personal areas, relying instead on the building's built insecurity features to stop intruders. More foolish he. There was no movement, and she took the chance he was still in his room. Mary propped the door ajar with a broom, and silently glided down the hall towards her target.

She pulled her nine mil from the holster on her thigh, the silencer adding a minor weight she hardly ever noticed anymore. Mary moved along the wall, hugging the shadows. She paused outside the door, and listened. There was the sound of a single person breathing just past the door, and she shifted, glancing quickly around the edge of the partly open door.

He stood at the mirror just to the right of the doorway, adjusting his tie. She listened, and there was no one else in there to worry about. Mary dropped the gun down, holding it casually by her thigh. She reached out, and lightly pushed on the door, opening it all the way and stepping through.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was not expecting anyone, much less an assassin he had sold out for information on his rival. Her sudden appearance in his private space was as much of a shock as the sight of the gun she held at her side.

"What! What do you think you are doing? How did you get in here?" He stammered, backing away, coming up against the large glass window that made up the entire wall.

London shined outside his window, the evening sun setting swiftly. The rays of gold and bronze shined across her face, illuminating her brilliant blue eyes, her porcelain skin. She was given a halo of light, her hair shining like a beacon. She was a lovely woman by any standard. She could see just fine, the angle of her stance letting her benefit from the light without being blinded by it. His tall form cast a long shadow, a black line on the golden floor. It stretched out across the entire room, and she stopped just shy of it, refusing to touch any part of him.

This man was as evil as they came. He took a perverse, deviant pleasure in violating people, their privacy, and then feeding off their pain and misery. He had no issue ruining lives the second they became inconvenient. He was a leech, a parasite on the souls of hundreds. The pain and despair of his victims was his favorite food, one he slobbered on and despoiled before sucking it down, destroying any shred of decency he may once have harbored in his shriveled soul.

"I have come to settle a debt, Magnussen." Mary said, her voice light, sweet. She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling brightly in the setting sun. There was no threat in her stance, the gun at her side seemingly forgotten. He held his hands out, beseechingly.

"A debt? What do you mean?" he asked, though he very well knew. He remembered everything, this man. Nothing slipped by him. She knew he was stalling, hoping against hope for one of his men to come up behind her and take her out. She also knew that he thought she was referring to her identity being leaked.

"There are hundreds of debts leveled against you, Magnussen. So many broken hearts, destroyed dreams. But there is only one debt that matters now." Mary put her finger on the trigger, knowing her couldn't see her hand in the blinding light, the shifting rays. He was focused on her face, falsely comforted by her smile, her unthreatening charm. The light was racing time across the horizon, and she knew the sun would set any moment.

"What debt do you mean? I assure you my dear, it was nothing personal, the selling of your identity. Perhaps we could make a trade? Perhaps there is something I know, someone I own, that could be of use to you? My life for whatever you want, you have only to ask." He told her, trying his best to convince this lovely woman not to kill him. He felt he had a good chance, as she had made no move to pull the trigger, and not once had she pointed the weapon at him. Everyone had a weakness, something they wanted, or needed. He felt certain that she had hers.

"There is something I want from you." Mary said, and she smiled as he relaxed slightly at her words. He saw her smile, and stood straighter, thinking she was willing to make a deal. "But first this debt you owe."

"Name it, we shall settle this like business people, yes? One professional to another." He said, fixing his tie, relaxing enough to fuss at his jacket. "There is much I could do for you."

"John Watson." One name. And that name was enough. Magnussen looked confused, for he knew John had left her, and why she would consider John a debt was beyond him. Mary smiled, and his face grew even more confused. The sun crowned her in its dying glory, her eyes as bright as the morning sky had been. "I don't care all that much about myself, I truly don't. I knew my dream of a happy life could evaporate any minute. But you put the only person I have ever loved into a bonfire and let it be lit. You took him from me as surely as you took him from Sherlock. While I am not his true love, he is mine. Forever."

"Then what can I do for you, to settle this affront?" He asked.

"Die." Mary said, as she lifted the gun, and she reveled in the sudden fear that eclipsed his eyes, the second before she pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his skull, just above and between his eyes. He died so fast he had no time to fully feel his fear. "And what I want is for you to go to Hell."

His body slumped against the glass wall, and he fell slowly to the floor just as the last flash of the setting sun vanished from the room. His eyes were truly vacant now, his body as empty as the remnants of his soul.

Mary stood over his body, and she sighed. Too fast, too soon. But she couldn't spare the time to fully satisfy her rage, her sorrow. She had done this for John just as much as she had for herself. Though she knew he would never approve, he would call this murder. Strangely enough, she knew Sherlock would understand, and forgive her for it. Too bad he would never know.

Mary had avenged her love, and ironically enough, saved Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes in the process. Magnussen had been gunning hard for both men, weeks away from attempting to manipulate Sherlock into betraying his brother. Whatever secret he held over the Holmes' brothers was as dead as he, now.

She turned away, catching a glimpse of London lighting up in the deepening twilight. It was so beautiful from up here. What a view. Mary left, already forgetting the limp corpse slumped on the floor.

She returned to the maintenance room, and dropped another block of C4 at the panel. She climbed down, well past the maintenance corridor, down and down. She was fit, she had no qualms about the thirty floors below her in the ventilation shaft. She paused once in a while, to stick a block of C4 to the wall from the small pack at the base of her back. This was all unnecessary. She had left no trace of herself behind. No, this was for Death, the progression of her plan. CAM Tower was one of the largest and most recognizable buildings in London, and multiple explosions would most definitely make a statement. The central air shaft was well away from populated areas, so she had minimal concerns about innocents. Mary climbed down to the fifth floor, where the shafts all split out and up. There she found the last access panel, and entered. This was how she had originally entered the building. The public had access to these levels, and she had left her street clothes in the main maintenance room. She quickly covered up her tac-gear, and exited the room. The black hat obscured her bright hair, the rim pulled low. Her long coat covered her completely, thick enough to hide the outlines of weapons. She made her way down to the main lobby, passing the other security guard on his way up the escalator. She smiled, guessing correctly that he had decided to stay and flirt longer with the barista.

Just as she hit the main lobby, she reached under her coat, and pressed the switch. Great, deep tremors shook the building. _BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. _Mary reacted like everyone else, looking up as the ceiling shook, the fire alarms went off, and as the lights flickered and the room fell dark. She ran with the crowd, outside and into the street. There she kept running, disappearing into the milling crowd, the panicked screams and shouts covering the sound of a car starting down the alley she was heading for. She never looked back, never looked up, as the top levels of CAM Tower erupted in flame, lighting the London skyline like a torch. Mary got in the black car, and it pulled out, vanishing into the streets.

* * *

Molly was tired. It had been such a long day, and the day before hadn't made things any easier. Lestrade had told her what Sherlock had learned about Mary, and that she was supposedly in league with a disciple of Moriarty.

She shivered, as any mention of that man terrified her. He had swept her off her feet, romanced her and seduced her. All to get to Sherlock. Molly had never been used so callously in her life, and it made her still feel dirty in some way. Stained. Molly knew better, she truly did, but she had trouble removing the injury he left. He had been so deliberately perfect, just what she thought she wanted.

Molly was closing down the lab, turning off instruments and making sure no notes were left out. The television was on in the office, and she would turn it off when she went for her purse. The night had gotten dark quickly, and the lab was filling up with shadows. She took one last look around, and went to the office door.

The news was on, and Molly stopped in dismay. There was an aerial shot of a burning building, a skyscraper. Flames engulfed the top floor, and at regular intervals down the length of the building, black smoke billowed out. As if it was burning from the inside too. The tower was barely recognizable, but she could see enough to know it was CAM Tower.

"Oh my God!" She breathed out, a hand covering her mouth. Was it terrorists? Arson?

Molly was absorbed, and she didn't see the shadow moving behind her, the silhouette of a taller woman at her shoulder.

"What a sight. I love a fire in autumn. Takes me back to holidays as a child." The voice said at her shoulder, and Molly screamed. She turned and backed away, staring at the woman who had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Molly asked, frightened by the woman. She was lovely, tall and slim and had an aura of grace. Her hair was long, braided back away from her face and trailing down her back. It was her eyes that made Molly afraid. Eyes that reminded her of a monster.

"My name isn't important. I haven't used it in so long that I believe I have forgotten it, really. You may call me Death, dear. A foolish name given to me by foolish men. So easily impressed by blood and destruction." The woman named Death smiled, and Molly felt a chill race down her spine. She was in danger, every instinct telling her to run. The other woman was between her and the door, and Molly had a feeling that she would not be able to win in a fight.

"What do you want?" Molly asked, her voice nothing but a whisper now. Death was still watching the news, the light from the fires on the screen dancing across her delicate features. Her eyes were lit from within with a different kind of fire, and Molly drew in a breath. Those eyes, she knew those eyes. The darkness was complete in the lab, but for the television. A heavy quiet was building, the air waiting for something to happen.

"I want you, dear." Death's eyes caught hers, and Molly locked up in terror. Her voice was strangled, and she felt a sick tension soak into her bones. _Her eyes, Oh God, she has his eyes!_

Molly's eyes widened in recognition, and Death nodded as she saw the other woman make the connection. Molly was shaking her head, and she tried to deny what every instinct in her body was screaming at her.

"You have his eyes." Molly stammered, and she gulped as Death grinned in delight.

Molly felt the world closing in on her, and she hardly felt the sharp blow to her temple that knocked her out. Death caught the slight woman as she started to fall, her weight easily managed. A larger shadow moved behind her in the doorway, and Death nodded. It peeled itself away from the other shadows, and Death passed the unconscious Dr Hooper over to one of her guards. He lifted her up, being careful when Death narrowed her eyes at him. The man and Dr Hooper disappeared into the shadows, and Death took one last look at the television.

"Well done Mary." Death said, and walked into the darkness.

The lab settled, the air still. Only the flames from the television gave light in the quiet room, and Molly's coat hung forlornly on the peg by the door.


	26. The Other Holmes' Heart

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Please enjoy, and review if the mood takes you. I had fun writing this one, exploring the beginnings of a different relationship is a challenge.**

**And a HUGE thank you to all the readers, reviewers, followers. This story is at 10.9k views even as I'm posting this. Thank you. I am overwhelmed by the welcome this story has received. Thank you.**

* * *

**C****hapter Twenty Six**

"_**The Other Holmes' Heart"**_

Mycroft Holmes was rarely surprised by anything. His brother was really the only one who could do it these days, as the rest of the world was so predictable. He could see the motives, the hollow gestures of humanity, seeing the actions of others before they thought to make them, and it left him cold. Mycroft cared only for his work, and his family. His family came only after the work, and many times Sherlock had stumbled into it, foolishly combining the two. It seemed to be his curse, for Sherlock to forever intertwine himself in the affairs of England, and in his brother's business. So it was no surprise when trouble came looking for his brother, it dragged the rest of the world in too. But Mycroft had found himself surprised by Dr Watson, a man whom he had thought neatly figured out and labeled.

Mycroft sat at his desk, preparing to leave London for his country estate. There had been no progress from the searches for Moran or Mary. They had searched for the last two days, and the events from last night had made it very clear that Lady Moran and Mary would only be found if they wanted to be.

Somehow they had evaded the CCTV feeds, and gone unseen by the surveillance teams he had following his brother and Dr Watson. Frustration made Mycroft grimace briefly, before he stamped it down. He had kept his cool as best he could when Detective Inspector Lestrade had informed him that two snipers had breached the safety net he had in place, and threatened his brother and the doctor. Mycroft had sent reinforcements as fast as possible, and the men who had been on duty last night had found themselves reassigned to very unpleasant tasks that morning. Mycroft knew he shouldn't go, that his people would handle it well enough on their own, and that Lestrade was there to tell him exactly what was happening. But Mycroft had been unable to resist the urge to go, and word of his brother's mental state had been the deciding factor. Sherlock was supposedly out of control, highly emotional and destroying things at his flat.

Lestrade had texted him, saying that Sherlock had injured himself in the midst of a breakdown, and that Dr Watson was tending to him. But that hadn't been enough for Mycroft; he had seen Sherlock break before over the years, and the results were always unpleasant, and usually involved hospital stays and restraints. He had expected to be walking into a scene of chaos, and instead found himself greeted by a calm Detective Inspector, who had waxed poetic on the merits of living with a doctor. Dr Watson had controlled his brother, treated his injuries, and then tucked him into bed like a recalcitrant toddler. To then see the doctor after his arrival at the flat in a serene and perfectly calm state was unexpected. Mycroft knew from experience that John Watson could handle his brother, but he had never expected the doctor to be able to handle Sherlock when he was completely out of control. And to then be politely dismissed as if he was a guest who had over stayed his welcome was even more surprising.

Mycroft had swallowed his protests, and followed the man from Scotland Yard out of the flat. Lestrade had waited for him outside on the curb, and Mycroft had found himself staring at the police officer. Mycroft knew that Lestrade cared for his brother, and a part of him appreciated it, as it meant the detective inspector would go farther in his efforts to take care of Sherlock. But Mycroft was wondering in part why he cared; most people saw Sherlock as a dangerous entity, necessary only for his skills, to be promptly forgotten once he was no longer needed. To be held at arm's length, and never welcomed closer. Yet Lestrade had run to Sherlock with all haste when informed he was in danger, and then had stuck around in the midst of an emotional and mental breakdown because he was worried. Those were not the actions of a man ordered to look out for a sociopath out of duty, but the actions of a friend, with emotional motivations.

"Don't worry about Sherlock, John's got him well sorted." Lestrade had said, lighting up a cigarette, the light from the flame briefly illuminating his eyes, bright and clear. "John didn't even blink, impressive as hell really. Man woke up to be told he'd had snipers painting on him with lasers, and his mate goes off his rocker, and John is calm as can be, hardly a feather ruffled. Sherlock cut his hand up in a nasty way, glass sticking out of it and everything. John didn't even act upset. Man's covered in his lover's blood, and he's as mellow as a man reading the paper."

"I thought for certain Sherlock was going to have to be restrained, or that John would have to drug him to get him under control. All he did was have Sherlock lean on him, and your brother passed out all on his own." Lestrade had flicked some ashes away, and finally noticed that Mycroft had been staring at him in most peculiar way.

Mycroft had been listening to the police officer, but it took him a moment to realize that Lestrade had stopped speaking, and was staring back at him. Mycroft had heard the concern, the affection, and dare he say love in the other man's voice as he described the actions of his little brother, and the indomitable doctor. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from asking, the question slipping out half formed and unwanted.

"Why do you care for him so much?" Mycroft had asked, his uncertainty clear in his voice, his confusion.

Lestrade choked, coughing, smoke coming out around his hand. Lestrade had looked at him, eyes wary before he answered.

"Your brother? I care because he's worth it." Lestrade answered, simply, without hesitation.

Mycroft had nodded, he had expected that answer.

"Yes, his consulting work is invaluable. I see." Mycroft had nodded at the police officer, and turned to his car where it was waiting for him on the curb.

"No, you don't. I care about Sherlock because he is worth it. The work he does doesn't factor into it for me. Man's my friend." Lestrade had cast him a look, and ground his cigarette out on the pavement with his toe. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade had turned, and walked off down the street, waving once to the guards parked behind his silver BMW. He had gotten in, and driven away, with Mycroft standing where he had left him.

Mycroft had gotten into his car, his driver pulling away from Baker Street without having to be told. Mycroft felt out of sorts, like he used to when his mother would scold him as a child for tormenting Sherlock. Mycroft had sat in silence the entire drive back to his townhouse, and it wasn't until he was back in his bedroom, preparing to go to bed, that he found his mobile in his hand. The text had almost sent itself, his mind screaming at him to stop. But he had sent it, in denial as much as he was aware of what he was doing.

**Goodnight, Detective Inspector.-MH**

It was as close to an apology as he could get. He somehow felt like he needed to offer one. He hadn't gotten a reply, and he had checked. Mycroft felt like a fool for checking. He never felt like a fool, and feeling like one in this instance had left him even more disconcerted.

"Sir?"

Anthea stood at the door to his office, snapping Mycroft out of his memories of the night before. She had a small smile on her lovely face, one hand raised, holding the door open.

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft asked, putting down his mobile, unaware that he had picked it up while trapped in his thoughts. He pretended that he hadn't been staring at it, willing it to chirp at him, and gave Anthea his complete attention.

Mycroft only ever called her thus when they were alone. Anthea had been with him the longest of all his aides, putting up with his cold ways and ruthless attitudes as if they were nothing. She had swiftly graduated from being an aide to being _his_ aide. He relied on her for almost everything, and he struggled not to let her see his dependency. He tried, but knew she saw through him. Thus he acknowledged her place in his life with this one endearment, never straying further. She returned the affection, and only she said 'sir' to him like that, as if he were the only one deserving of being called that. Anthea would smile at him, her eyes sparkling and her lips curved with the barest traces of amusement.

"The cars are ready. We can leave for the country house at your discretion." She said, and Mycroft nodded in reply.

He stood, and grabbed his bag and mobile on the way out. She held the door as he passed, falling into to step behind him down the long hall, out to the front. The house was already dark in preparation for their departure, and the sound of Anthea's heels on the marble floor echoed off the wood walls. His bags and hers had already been packed up by his staff, and the escort car was waiting behind his Jaguar. Night had fallen, and the city was quiet. He waited beside her on the curb as his valet loaded their bags, Anthea checking her mobile for last minute alerts before they left. Mycroft gave his bag over to be loaded up as well, and he froze when he heard Anthea gasp.

"Sir! There's been an incident!" She looked at him, dismay and fear clear in her eyes, and she stepped close, grabbing onto his arm.

"What has happened?" He asked, not at all bothered by her touch.

"There's reports of an explosion at CAM Tower, the top levels are engulfed in flames." She said, and just as she finished speaking, Mycroft's mobile erupted in a flurry of alerts, and began to ring loudly.

He answered, and stood listening to the alert being broadcast simultaneously to all high ranking MI6 members. It was an automated alert, and gave no more information this early on than Anthea had given him. He turned to Anthea, and caught her attention.

"Go back inside, recall everyone. We won't be leaving." He kept the mobile to his ear, as more updates rolled in. Anthea nodded briskly, and let go of her grip on his arm, and all but ran back into the house, through the still open door. He watched as she disappeared down the long hallway, going to the bunker.

* * *

She texted as she ran, sending out commands on her mobile to recall the teams that had gone back to headquarters after Mycroft had dismissed them earlier. Her heart was racing in her chest, and she feared her night was about to get a lot more exciting than a lovely ride through the countryside with her boss. Explosions never meant anything good, no matter what you did for a living.

Anthea went as fast as she dared in her high heels, navigating the long halls of Mycroft's home confidently in the dark. She didn't even bother stopping to turn on the lights, knowing her way well. She rounded the sharp corner in the hall, near the rear of the house, just as in went down to the lower level. She was going so fast she didn't see the shadow detach itself from the wall, the flash of wild eyes in the low light.

Anthea fell fast, caught from behind in a choke hold around her neck, a hand clamped down on her mouth. Anthea struggled, and she fought, clawing at the arm wrapped around her. She tried her best, fear giving her strength. Her mobile fell to the floor, clattering down the first few steps of the stairs that led to the bunker. Its glow on the stairs was the last thing she saw.

Anthea collapsed, her attacker dragging her out of the hall, into the shadows of an empty room. The window at the back was open, the cold night air blowing the curtains, moonlight beginning to streak in across the floor. The newly risen moon was so bright it lit the features clearly of the disciple, her eyes glittering in triumph. A larger shadow waited next to sill, and accepted the weight of the unconscious woman easily. He carried her over his shoulder as he leapt into the back garden, the smaller wraith of the disciple following.

Death didn't bother with closing the window, nor did she care that Mycroft Holmes was just on the other side of the house. She followed her bodyguard through the darkness of the garden, footsteps sure in the black. Their limo was parked in the alley behind the townhouse, engine running. Death opened the door, and her man got in, gently lowering Mycroft's woman to the floor next to the still form of Dr Hooper. Death had sent her regular car ahead to the estate earlier with Sargent Donovan, and she had taken the limo to grab her remaining two targets.

Death got in, and the limo purred deeply as it pulled away. She knew Anthea's absence would be noticed soon, but she had accounted for this, and had a vehicle waiting for them at the designated place, where they would switch out before heading to the estate. She knew well the streets of London, and the coverage of the CCTV cameras. She had avoided detection for days, and she had done it with ease. No one would be able to trace them.

She smiled, content. Mary had texted once she had made it safely back to the estate, and Death was satisfied. The first night's work of her plan had gone well. Mary had her revenge and secured further protection from Magnussen, London was put on notice, and Death had stolen away the women dearest to the hearts of her opponents. The only men she need worry about were the Holmes brothers, and their very dependable police officer. She now had them all by their heartstrings, and soon she would strike for the very heart itself.

John Watson would soon be hers, as well.

* * *

Mycroft swore under his breath, and stalked down the hall to his bunker. He flicked on the lights as he passed, not being as sure as Anthea was in the dark. Mycroft tried calling her again, and he thought he heard something ahead of him. He felt a cold breeze whip out from one of the side rooms, and was about to look when he heard a mobile chirping around the corner.

Mycroft rounded the corner, about to head down the stairs, when he stopped in surprise. He had thought he heard someone's mobile, but there was no one there. Mycroft still had the mobile to his ear, and it was ringing out. He looked down the stairs, and he saw something shining in the shadows.

That chirping came again, and the light was stronger too. Mycroft felt himself grow cold, fingers tingling as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stepped down, slowly, his legs barely keeping him upright as he stood over the mobile on the stairs. Anthea's mobile. He bent down, pocketing his mobile, silencing hers. He looked down the hall, the lights still off, the bunker door still locked and dormant. She hadn't even made it to the bunker.

_The window! The cold breeze!_ Mycroft ran for the first time in years, leaping back up the stairs and grabbing the wall to round the corner. He ran into the dark room that looked out into the garden. The window was open, the cold wind ripping into the curtains and spiraling into the rest of the house. The moon was bright, so very bright that he squinted against the light as he ran to the window. Mycroft could see nothing, the garden a twisting maze of moonlit plants and deepening shadows.

He leaned out, hands on the cold sill, and looked down. Two sets of footprints, one of large man, his feet imprinted deeply in the damp earth beneath the window. The other was a woman's, wearing combat boots and moving swiftly. The man had been carrying extra weight. He had been carrying Anthea. Mycroft felt his heart surge into his throat, blood roaring in his ears.

Mycroft was in shock, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. The only thing he could was move on autopilot, let habit tell him what to do. But his habit was to reach for Anthea, let her carry out his will, to fix things for him. Mycroft wanted to scream, his emotions wreaking havoc for the first time in decades. He knew she was long gone; he stood and stared out into the night, the cold moonlight bright in his eyes. Mycroft fumbled for his mobile, and pulled it out. He stared at it, having almost forgotten how to use it.

_Call him, call him call him …. _Mycroft hit the speed dial, and held the mobile to his ear. It was ringing, and he waited for that voice. The one that would pull him back.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. What do you need, sir?"

* * *

John was making supper when Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, and he was about to ask her to stay and join them when she ignored him, and went straight for the television. She turned it on, and backed away. John walked to her side, and he stood there in shock, watching the burning tower, the destruction wrought in the heart of London.

"Sherlock!" John called, and he heard his detective stir from the bedroom. "Sherlock!"

"What? I'm right here, there's no need to yell!" Sherlock grumbled, his blue robe billowing out behind him has he stomped into the room. He stopped at John's shoulder, gaze captured by the fires on the screen.

Sherlock stood taller, all weariness wiped from his face, eyes went bright and icy. Sherlock reached out, and turned up the volume. A reporter's voice came out, clearly from the helicopter that circled around the burning building.

"_An explosion ripped through the top levels of CAM Tower earlier in the evening. Several witnesses claim to have heard up to five separate explosions, and reports are coming in of multiple fires spreading throughout the tower. We have unconfirmed reports of dozen of casualties, no word on any fatalities as of yet. We cannot confirm if this is the result of terrorism, or if this was some sort of gas leak disaster."_

"_We cannot confirm whether or not the building's owner, Charles Augustus Magnussen, was in his private flat at the top of CAM Tower when the fires started. Witnesses said that the top floor of the tower exploded prior to burning."_

The reporter droned on, repeating the same information over and over. Sherlock reached out and muted the television, and John put a hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and hit the speed dial. John watched him, rubbing Mrs. Hudson's shoulder reassuringly as she watched the news. John figured he was calling Mycroft.

"Mycroft- I assume you're aware that…. What?" Sherlock stopped talking, whatever his brother was saying enough to interrupt him. Sherlock's eyes went glacial, and John felt a wave of unease sweep across his heart at the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm coming."

"We need to go, now." Sherlock didn't wait for John's reply, he turned for the bedroom, throwing off his robe as he sprinted down the short hall.

"Is it the bombing at CAM Tower?" John asked, reaching for his boots, glad he was already dressed, as Sherlock was getting dressed faster than he'd ever seen him do it before. He picked up his gun from the nightstand, checking it was still loaded, an extra magazine in the holster. Sherlock was dressed in record time, tearing past John, the doctor hard on his heels. Mrs. Hudson watched them grab their coats, and John smiled at her before he followed Sherlock out of the flat.

Sherlock tore out of the flat, just as a black Jaguar roared up in front of them. John was expecting to see Anthea as they opened the door and got in. She wasn't there, just one of the regular drivers. The second the door was shut, Mycroft's man hit the accelerator, and the car leapt away from Baker Street.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked, adjusting the gun in his waistband. Sherlock looked paler than usual, and whatever it was that Mycroft had said to him had shaken him.

"Anthea has been taken." Sherlock said, words clipped. "From inside my brother's house."

"What?" John was in shock. For someone to get to an MI6 operative while in one of the safest homes in Britain was unbelievable.

"Mycroft asked me to come." Sherlock said, and his voice betrayed him. Uncertainty laced with confusion. For Mycroft to ask, not order, was rare. Very rare. Yet Sherlock knew who was responsible. And his heart iced over, resolve hardening his core, stripping away his emotions.

"Death has her." Sherlock said.

* * *

Sherlock jumped from the car before it even finished stopping, running through the front door of his brother's house. Police cars and black government vehicles crowded the street in front of the older Holmes' home. He ignored the MI6 agents, the police officers, everyone. He knew John was behind him, within arm's reach. Sherlock dodged and weaved around the people stupid enough not to get out of his way, as he headed down the long hall.

Lestrade saw him coming, as he was standing in the doorway of the rear room where Anthea's kidnappers had taken her out of the house. The rooms were all lit, officers looking for evidence, taking pictures.

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded, as Lestrade stopped him from running past with a hand on his chest.

"He's in here. One sec Sherlock. Mycroft…" Lestrade paused, and dropped his hand away at Sherlock's look. "Mycroft called me just as it happened. He didn't sound….. He didn't sound right."

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, his face a mix of sympathy and something else. Something like pain. "Go gently, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, eyes searching Lestrade's face for clues to his brother's state. He didn't see what he needed, the Inspector was looking deeper in to the room, his concentration locked on the other Holmes. Sherlock moved past him, looking for his brother. John followed Sherlock, the doctor casting Lestrade a sympathetic look before entering the room.

Sherlock zeroed in on Mycroft, where his brother was standing near the open window. He was looking out into the garden, the wind blowing strongly into the room. Mycroft didn't pay any attention to the people working around him; they all knew better than to ask him to move. Useless officers were taking pictures, notes. All to catalogue what Mycroft already knew. The evidence had been very clear, after all. Anyone with a brain could see what he did. Sherlock went to his side, making forensic techs scuttle away nervously. Sherlock looked out the window and down, much as Mycroft had done earlier. He saw exactly what his brother had.

"They didn't leave her here, Mycroft. She was alive." Sherlock said, staring out into the garden, standing much like his brother was. Mycroft didn't even look at him, he kept looking out into the night, where she had disappeared.

"I sent her back in here." Mycroft stated, voice emotionless. His eyes were bright, the moon still shining intensely through the open window, its light scattering across the floor. "We were on the way to the country house, when the alerts came through. I sent her back in here to…."

His voice faded away, and Mycroft stopped himself, holding tightly to his control. Sherlock shifted, moving closer, his shoulder almost touching his brother's. Mycroft let him, not minding that his little brother was close to showing brotherly sentiment.

"They were waiting for the best chance, brother. If they hadn't been able to get her here, it would have been at the other house." Sherlock told his brother, knowing as he did that Mycroft wouldn't heed him, that he would blame himself if he wanted. Mycroft nodded, the barest dip in his chin. Sherlock just moved half a step closer, lightly touching now, and Mycroft relaxed, just slightly. Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye, and stayed where he was. Offering comfort to his brother was difficult, as neither man knew how to handle it.

John watched them both, baffled by them as usual. How hard was it to reach out, to hug one's sibling? Admittedly, not every family was the same, and the Holmes brothers were the most unusual of them all. John kept back, within hearing distance, but not intruding. Mycroft was obviously upset, as much as John had ever seen him, really. He was paler than usual, and his superior attitude and sarcastic airs were gone, stripped away by shock and fear. Mycroft may not know he was scared, but John saw the signs clearly.

John looked back at Lestrade, who was still standing in the doorway, mobile to his ear, eyes locked on Mycroft. He looked equally impatient, and concerned. John figured the concern was for Mycroft, as John could easily see the regard the Inspector held for the elder Holmes. It was in every glance Lestrade tossed at the MI6 agent. John marveled at it, that no one else seemed to see it. It was if Lestrade didn't even know, really. John filed that away for later, wondering what it would take to prod the Iceman into opening up to a normal human being. John shook his head, knowing it would most likely take a miracle.

Lestrade dropped the mobile away from his ear, redialing, cursing in frustration. John looked one last time at the brothers, still standing by the window, silent. He walked to Lestrade, who seemed to be having trouble getting ahold of someone, considering how many times he was hitting redial.

"Greg? Problem?" John asked quietly, keeping his voice down. If there was a problem, it was best not to let the brothers hear it unless it was relevant to Anthea.

"I've called and texting Donovan all afternoon, since Sherlock called earlier today. I got ahold of her as she was leaving an interview with a witness, told her to come back in. I assumed she went home instead, as she never came back to the Yard. But she always answers if I call. She hasn't even texted me back." Lestrade was worried, his face pale, and he was chewing on his lower lip as he hit Redial again, listening to the mobile ring unanswered in his ear.

"You haven't heard back from her?" John felt his stomach drop, his hands go cold. Anthea had been taken, and now Donovan wasn't answering her boss. No matter how John may feel about her, he didn't want her hurt. The world of Sherlock Holmes never offered up pure coincidence. This was not good.

"I'm sending an officer to her place." Lestrade muttered, canceling the call and dialing a new number.

John felt Sherlock come up behind him, a change in how the air felt, a warmth in the cold air. John turned, his lover at his shoulder, looking at Lestrade. Mycroft had followed, his gaze locked on the Inspector. John reached out a hand to Sherlock, his detective catching hold without looking. Lestrade was sending a patrol car to her flat, and would know in a few minutes if Donovan was home.

They all waited, standing silently, as the minutes ticked by. The other people in the room worked around them, knowing better than to interrupt, to intrude. There was a gloom hanging about them, noticeable to everyone. They just stood, waiting for Lestrade's mobile to ring, for Donovan to call or text, to apologize for not answering. Maybe she fell asleep on her couch, having intended to get right back up after resting for a minute. Or she was out on a date, not answering on purpose.

Those were the thoughts running through Lestrade's mind, though he knew better. Hope was trying to tell him to be optimistic, but every instinct of his was screaming that she was in danger. No one moved, John gripping Sherlock's hand tightly. Mycroft moved up to the police officer, as if drawn by gravity, glaring at the mobile too.

They jumped when it began to ring, Lestrade fumbling to answer. He brought the mobile to his ear, barking out a "What?!" before listening.

"What do you mean she isn't there?" Lestrade snarled, fear and panic twisting his voice. He listened for a moment more, before slowly dropping the mobile down. His face was white, and his hand shook as he ended the call.

"They talked to her neighbor, Sally never went back to her flat after leaving for the Yard early this morning." Lestrade stiffened up, and started dialing another number. Mycroft reached out, catching the Inspector's hand, stopping him.

"I have a faster way to find her, to see if we need worry. Come with me." Mycroft turned the Inspector, pushing him out the door and down towards the bunker. John and Sherlock followed, John shocked by Mycroft's willingness to touch another human.

Mycroft guided Lestrade downstairs, and opened the bunker's door. They all stepped through, the room fully lit, MI6 agents back at their desks, most of them monitoring the crisis at CAM Tower, and a few were searching through the CCTV feeds that watched over Mycroft's neighborhood.

Mycroft went to a station, and whispered briefly to one of his aides. The man blinked once before turning to his computer, typing in commands so fast his fingers were a blur. The video feeds all changed, switching to views of Donovan's street, and outside the Yard. It was from earlier in the day, the sun still up, shining brightly before the rapidly moving clouds swept across it. The aide moved the time, speeding things up, and they could see the computer freeze an image, outside Scotland Yard. A green box outlined the frame of a woman, stepping from a cab in front of Scotland Yard.

"That's Donovan! She did come back to the Yard…. But what…" Lestrade stopped, as the video zoomed in, clearly showing Donovan outside the Yard, and walking into another woman dressed in a long black coat. The video held them all captive, as they watched Donovan waver on her feet, reaching down to her side as if going for her weapon. It was gone, having quickly been snatched by the woman in the black coat. Donovan's face went rigid in fear, eyes wide, and she seemed to recognize the woman in front of her. Suddenly she was bracketed by another person, a man who wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her up as she passed out while standing. A town car had appeared behind them, and the man carefully put Donovan in the car, her body limp.

No one noticed, no one tried to stop the kidnapping happening in broad daylight in front of Scotland Yard. The woman in black turned, walking forward a few feet, seeming to stare directly at them, her hand lifting away her hat. Her long brown braid tumbled free, and the computer zoomed in on her face, clearly showing the beautiful features of Sybil Moran. She smiled directly at the camera, and nodded once. Her eyes were dark and burning with what looked to be satisfaction, and her smile had a feral edge to it, for all its beauty. She then got in the car, and it was lost in the afternoon traffic.

"Death has Donovan." Sherlock said, knocking them all free from the dread and shock that had held them as they watched the very smooth operation unfold in front of them. Death had kidnapped a police officer in the heart of London, without once drawing a glance or a question from anyone.

Lestrade looked stricken, and he gripped his mobile tightly, like he was willing Donovan to call him, to tell him she was okay. Mycroft was watching him, his face as white as the Inspector's. Mycroft was standing at the policeman's shoulder, and Lestrade wavered on his feet, swaying slightly, towards the taller man.

"Sally's tough. Vicious. She'll fight." Lestrade mumbled to himself, and looked up at the image of her frozen in time on the screen.

Sherlock pulled away from John, pacing. His eyes narrowed, and his steps were fast. He would look to the screens, then back down to the ground. He had his back to them all when he stopped, head coming up. He'd had a thought, and he moved back around so fast John feared he gave himself whiplash.

"Check for similar activity outside of Bart's Hospital." He ordered, his voice echoing in the bunker, deep and ominous. "John, call Molly Hooper."

John's heart jumped in sudden realization, and he fumbled for his mobile, looking for Molly's number, and dialing, the call on speaker. It rang and rang, before going to voicemail. Molly's sweet voice came through, telling them to leave a message. Her voice dropped out on a small laugh, and John ended the call. Silence hung heavy in the air, John looking to Sherlock.

Sherlock was impassive, eyes as hard as diamonds, his demeanor radiating lethal anger. He was watching as the CCTV feeds from outside of Bart's were pulled up, and the multiple views ran on all the screens. The day went by on fast forward, the sun setting swiftly.

"Stop! There, the bottom image. Bring it up on the larger screen." Sherlock pointed, to a darker video. The image was laden with shadows and the light was minimal. Once it was on the larger screen, the aide enhanced it, and the shadows dulled out to grey.

The video showed the back service entrance, and there was a shadow of a dark car just outside the doors. The door opened, light spilling out, illuminating the figures who walked out, one of them carrying the limp form of a woman. Her long hair was pulled back in tail, spilling over the shoulder of the man carrying her. Molly's pretty face was briefly lit by the light from inside the building, and the man carrying her got into the limo waiting for them. The smaller figure, the one that moved with a predatory grace, paused in the light, her shadow stretching out across the alley. She looked up, as she had before, and she gazed directly into the camera. She knew where it was, with unerring accuracy. Death smiled, and this smile was all violent mania; all previous smiles had held at least a hint of decorum. This smile sent shivers running down John's spine. He knew who that smile was for.

Death knew, she knew, that they would piece it together, and too late for them to stop her. She smiled now for Sherlock.

"She took Donovan earlier in the afternoon, then Molly and Anthea within an hour of each other. She had this planned, exceedingly well. She has watched the women for days. This has been her plan all along." Sherlock said, and Mycroft and Lestrade pulled themselves from their mutual misery to look to the detective.

Sherlock looked at the aide, and the man shrank back from the detective's stony eyes.

"Can you track them at all?"

The aide shook his head, and stammered out a nervous negative.

"She knows where all the blind spots are, where all the vague coverage is. She either switches vehicles, or uses some other method of evading the cameras until she's out of city limits. We've even tracked decoy cars that eventually disappear as well. Her people are well-trained, sir."

"Sherlock. Find her." Mycroft ordered his brother, a thin crack in his armor showing, despair leaking out into the air around him. John couldn't tell if Mycroft meant Death, or Anthea. From his face, he most likely meant both. Lestrade was shaken free from his own despair, and he lifted a hand to Mycroft's shoulder. The elder Holmes didn't even react, just looked at his brother beseechingly.

John stood in the cold underground bunker, the room that held such power over the whole of England. Here so many lives could be affected, with just a few commands typed into a computer. It was here they were rendered useless, impotent to the skill and cunning of a single woman. She had stabbed directly at their hearts, and claimed first blood.

London was burning, and they knew Death had only just begun.

Sherlock moved to John's side, grabbing his hand in a grip so tight it hurt.

"She will come for you next, John."


	27. Say Goodbye

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: VIOLENCE. And extreme sadness.**

**Read, enjoy, review. And thank you.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

"_**Say Goodbye"**_

Molly woke with a start, her heart in her throat, terror coursing through her veins. The floor was cold, her body shivering in the early morning light. Her face was cold from the floor, and she lifted her head. There was a shoe next to her face, a black high heel, shiny and expensive. Molly stared at it, wondering how a shoe got in her bed, when she was certain she'd never owned one that looked that nice.

There was a moaning coming from off to the side, and Molly sat up, hand to her head, looking for the source of the noise. She looked around her in confusion, unable to understand why she wasn't at home, in her bed. She was in a very large room, the light grey and weak. She had the impression of wood, a vast space above her, and white ghost like shapes in the distance. Her eyes refused to work right, her head was pounding in time with her heart. Molly groaned, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, dizzy. She put a hand to her temple, and pulled it away, blood smeared on her palm.

It was the blood that brought back the flood of memories, the night before. She had been confronted by a nightmare, a woman with the eyes of a monster.

"Molly?" It was a whisper, spoken from a voice that sounded weak and dry. Molly sat up further, looking down to her other side. Sally Donovan was sitting up against the bars of their cage, her head braced by her hands. Her curly hair was a wild mess, and she was pale, which was a frightening look on her naturally dark skin. Molly stared, unable to understand why she and Donovan were in a large metal cage in a very big ballroom.

"Sally? Are you alright? What happened?" Molly whispered, nervous as her voice echoed in the large room. She dragged herself over to the other woman, her legs shaking, refusing to work right. The exertion made her head hurt worse, and she gasped, grabbing the solid metal bars of their cage for support. Sally looked ill, and Molly could see no signs of injury, nothing similar to her head wound. She knew from years of looking at mangled corpses that she had been hit, very hard, in the head, and she most likely had a concussion. Molly reached out to Sally, who looked like she was going to get ill.

"She got me, I couldn't move. Greg….. Called me back…. She got me there." Sally tried to explain, and she moaned, as talking hurt her head. "Think she drugged me."

"Sybil Moran? Is that who did it?" Molly whispered, putting her hand on the other woman's forehead. She was a little cold, and her eyes were focusing slowly. She was acting like she had a severe hangover, and Molly looked around their cage for a bucket, anything in case Sally decided to throw up.

It was then she noticed the other occupant, the owner of the very expensive black heel. She was laying on her stomach, long brown hair strewn across the floor, her suit wrinkled. Molly gasped, and crawled over to her, reaching a hand out to her shoulder, gently turning her onto her back.

"Oh dear God, Anthea?" Molly whispered, and she put her fingers to the woman's neck, looking for a pulse. She found it, nearly collapsing in relief. Her fingers traced the vague outline of bruises along the MI6 agent's neck. Anthea had been knocked out by a stranglehold, and her neck was bruising. It had been fast and hard, and she would most likely find it hard to talk. Molly hadn't seen Anthea for weeks, almost two months ago. She had stopped by to see Molly at St Bart's to tell her Sherlock was well, and was wrapping things up. That he should be home soon. Molly had been elated, and then swamped by guilt. She got to know that Sherlock was coming home, while John…

"Who is that?" Sally asked, her voice getting stronger. She seemed to be winning the fight with her rebellious stomach, and her color was coming back.

"It's Anthea. She's hurt, knocked out." Molly said, and she saw her lab coat tossed off to the side. Molly leaned over the prone woman, and snagged a corner of it. She balled it up, and put it under Anthea's head. Her pulse was strong, but Molly needed to check for more injuries. Surely a strangle hold wouldn't keep her under longer than Molly's blow to the head, or Sally's drugged state. Molly ran her hands through Anthea's hair, noticing it was far softer than hers. Anthea had no bumps, no blood. She hadn't been hit.

"Anthea? Can you hear me?" Molly asked, gently squeezing her shoulder. Nothing.

"Is she ok?" Sally slowly dragged herself over to them, her strength returning.

"I don't know, she isn't waking up." Molly said. She lifted her head quickly, the sudden movement making her temple throb. There was a noise behind them, outside the cage.

Sally stilled, her hands clenching into fists on her knees. Her eyes went bright with anger, and fear. Molly started to shake, and turned around, slowly. She kept Anthea behind her, the woman on the floor the most vulnerable of the three of them. Sally tried to stand, but her legs collapsed beneath the residual effects of the drugs.

A man was standing outside the cell, clad in black tactical gear, his bare head shaved down to the skin. He was large, well-muscled and scarred. His face was void of all emotion, and the gun on his hip drew Molly's attention. He didn't speak, just stared through the bars of their cage. He looked through Molly as if she wasn't a person, like she was a thing, an animal. No recognition that she was a frightened woman in a cage, who wanted nothing more than to go home. The sun was rising, and the room was getting brighter. Molly could see farther, and the vast space echoed with the silence, oppressive despite its beauty.

"Who the hell are you? Do you have any idea the shitstorm you've invited by kidnapping us?" Sally snarled, rage dripping from every word. She was glaring daggers, and she fought to stand. Molly reached out and caught her hand, keeping her down. "Oh brilliant idea, let's kidnap a police officer, Sherlock Holmes's lab partner and the personal aide to the most powerful man in Britain. Really smart."

He didn't answer, his hand resting casually on his gun. Molly shivered, and tightened her grip on Sally's hand. She wanted to speak, to tell Sally not to provoke him, but she couldn't get air into her lungs to form the words. Her eyes dropped to his other hand, and the bag he held. It was a plastic grocery bag, full of water bottles, and what looked like fruit.

He snapped free the strap holding his gun in its holster, the sharp noise making Molly jump. She held tighter to Sally, and the police woman gripped her hand back. Her face never lost its derision, but Molly felt her fear in her hands.

"What's wrong with her?" His voice was unexpected, rough. As if he wasn't used to talking to people. He vaguely motioned at Anthea, his face skeptical and cautious.

Molly struggled for words, as Donovan growled at the guard. She knew she should say something, Anthea may need help, more than Molly could give her.

"She hasn't… She won't wake up. I think something happened when she got grabbed." Molly stammered out, barely able to get the words out. "She needs help."

The guard's face finally twitched, with the faintest glimmer of annoyance, and something akin to nerves. He dropped the bag, and pulled his gun. Molly gasped, fearing she'd made a mistake. Donovan tensed, preparing to do something. Molly wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Fear was crawling around inside her stomach, making her feel ill. He brought the weapon up, and pointed it right at Donovan's face. Molly felt a sensation like cold water running through her muscles, convinced she was going to see Donovan die.

"Move back, both of you. Other side of the cage." He said, his intent to shoot sincere if they didn't do as he ordered. His eyes were empty of compassion, and Molly found herself pulling Donovan back, towards the far wall. Anthea was still out, limp, unaware. Donovan struggled against Molly, but the guard still had his weapon pointed at her face, and she went grudgingly. She moved in front of Molly, keeping the pathologist behind her, up against the wall.

The guard kept his gun aimed at Donovan, and with his other hand pulled out a set of keys, jiggling them one-handed until he found the one he wanted. Without once taking the weapon off Donovan, he approached the door to the cell, and inserted the key. He paused, and his eyes went to Anthea, still unresponsive on the floor. She hadn't moved, no reaction. He turned the key, the metal screeching slightly. He paused again, eyes locked on Anthea, but the gun was still trained on Donovan. Still Anthea made no reaction, and he seemed satisfied. He pulled open the door, and stepped in. Donovan tensed up, but the weapon was still pointing at her face, and she sat back.

He stepped in fully, his large frame and gun between them and the door to the cell. He stood over Anthea, and nudged her roughly in the ribs with his boot. She moved limply with the motion, and didn't respond. Donovan started to shake, and Molly wrapped her hands around the other woman's arms. The guard shifted his focus from Donovan down to Anthea, and he nudged her again. She must have made a small movement or response, because he suddenly had the gun pointed down at her. Molly wanted to scream, convinced he was going to shoot the woman as she lay helpless on the floor.

"Leave her alone!" Donovan snarled, and his eyes raised back to her, the gun still pointed down. His attention was split, and that's all Anthea needed.

She moved like the wind, faster than thought. Her body twisted on the floor, legs tangling with his, her hands raised up fast as a snake, locked on the gun. She kept moving, rotating on the floor, and he fell backwards, his own weight pulling the gun from his hands, and into Anthea's grasp. He fell, and Anthea brought her feet up under her, turning the gun around, her hands gripping it firmly, pointed straight into his face as she rose up over him. It was over in seconds, the large guard disarmed by the MI6 agent, who was very much all right, and her eyes were burning with righteous fury.

"Donovan!" Anthea snapped, and the cop surged to her feet, racing forward, one foot raised over the guard's head. She brought her heel down hard on his temple, his head hitting the solid wood floor with a sickening crack. Adrenaline had cleared away the last of the drugs, and left her shaking with anger.

He wasn't dead, his pulse still beat strongly in his neck, visible even to Molly, who was stuck in the corner against the wall, struck dumb by the last ten seconds. He wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

"Get her up, we need to move." Anthea ordered, reaching down for the keys that had fallen to the floor. Donovan turned back to Molly, pulling her up roughly to her feet. Anthea stepped out of the cage, kicking off her high heels as she went, gun sweeping the room, eyes tracking everywhere, looking for movement. Donovan had Molly in a death grip, and dragged her out behind the agent.

Anthea led the way to the nearest door, weaving her way through the tables and shrouded furniture in the large room. Pressing her back against the wall next to it, she reached out a hand, and very slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked, and Anthea pulled only enough to crack the door open. Anthea looked through the thin space, holding her breath. Donovan kept Molly behind her, pressed against the wall on the other side of the door. Anthea waited, and heard nothing. She grabbed the door, intending to pull it open enough for them to sneak through. She held the gun up, and nodded at Donovan to get ready to move.

The shot exploded in the room, ricocheting like thunder. The gun spun from Anthea's hand, and she screamed, the wood of the door absorbing the bullet, splinters erupting like shrapnel from a bomb. Anthea clutched her hand to her chest, blood running between her fingers.

Donovan and Molly turned, and Molly bit back a scream of her own. Death, once known as Sybil Moran, stood behind them, the far door open. She was standing near the cage, her disabled guard at her feet. She had taken her shot from almost twenty-five feet away. She held a beast of a handgun in a grip that was flawless, her stance screaming lethality. The weapon looked far too big for the slim assassin, yet she handled it with ease. The black gear she wore gave her the look of a reaper, Death come for them at last. Her eyes were rabid, yet her face was empty of all thought and emotion. She emanated a level of rage that was beyond madness, from just her eyes.

Her men swept into the room behind her, from the same door she had used. Their weapons raised, over a dozen guns pointed at the three women. Anthea was breathing rapidly through her teeth, trying to stop the blood flow from her hand pressed to her chest. Death's men surrounded them, and the door at their backs opened, and Donovan and Molly found themselves held at point-blank range, two guards entering from the hall. A third guard grabbed Anthea, and threw her to the floor, his gun trained on her face, his boot on her stomach, holding her down. She groaned quietly as he pressed harder, and she stopped resisting.

"I was going to do this nicely, ladies." Death said, and she lowered her gun. "With a degree of civility, even."

Her men kept theirs aimed at the women, and Death looked down at her guard, the disabled one at her feet. She reached down, grabbed his collar, and single-handedly dragged his long form from the cell. She was tall and slim, but all muscle, and the ease with which she handled him was eerie. She pulled him towards the women, and as she passed, her men adjusted their aim, so that their line of fire would not endanger their mistress. She dropped him within feet of her prisoners, and they could hear him moaning, coming around. Death faced the women, her eyes burning like fire. Her black boot flashed out, cutting off his moans, pressing on his throat. He was choking, and her expression hadn't even changed. Not once had she shown any emotion on her face, just with those eyes…

"Since you have decided to be foolish, I am no longer playing nice." She fired without once taking her eyes from the three women. The large-caliber bullet destroyed the prone guard's head; blood, bone and brain matter exploding across the floor. Blood splashed up, droplets misting across her cheeks. Death didn't react at all, not caring she was covered in blood. The ruin of his skull sprayed onto Molly and Donovan's feet and lower legs, hot and wet. Molly screamed into Donovan's shoulder, closing her eyes too late to avoid seeing, and the police woman shuddered. Anthea looked on with a helpless expression, her eyes draining of rage at the sight. Death's men hadn't even flinched at the execution of one of their own, their obedience to her will absolute.

"Strip them down, and back into the cage. No more chances." Death holstered her gun, pulling her foot away from the corpse. "And clean this trash up."

* * *

It had been a full day since the women were kidnapped. Nearly twenty-four hours, and there was no sign, no whisper, no hint of where Death was hiding them.

Mycroft had shaken himself from his shock, and with one terse command, his minions flew through London, tearing it apart. Every crumb of a clue was inspected, and tossed up the line for consideration. Every CCTV feed scrutinized, every email searched, and Mycroft hacked into the cell towers, attempting to track Death via GPS and texts. Nothing. Not a scent of a trail.

Sherlock had sent the word out to his Homeless Network, and the whole of the city knew before breakfast that Sherlock Holmes was hunting for someone. Villains scurried into their bolt holes, as Sherlock's network tore through the underbelly of the city. They sent back a constant stream of information, but none of it was helping. All it served was to make it clear that wherever Death was, she wasn't inside London.

Lestrade had alerted every precinct in the city that an officer had been kidnapped, and the news stations picked up the story. Donovan and Molly made the news, their pictures sharing airtime with the coverage of the destruction at CAM Tower. Police officers were on high alert, patrols scouring the city. Mycroft had refused to let Anthea's picture be released, so the only people who knew she was missing were Mycroft's, and Sherlock's.

The entire city knew to some degree that something was very wrong, from the housewife washing dishes, eyes on the telly, as she waited on the kids to come home from school, to the street beggar hunting in the Underground for an undiscovered lair.

All of London was looking for Death, and her three prisoners. The day wore on, and failure was chasing at the heels of the sun.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know what time it was, all he knew was that the lessening light was making it hard for him to see the maps strewn across the floor of the room he was using. Sherlock had commandeered one of the larger sitting rooms of his brother's house, and he had sent Mycroft's people out for maps of all of London, and the surrounding countryside.

John was sleeping on a settee along the wall, one Sherlock had unceremoniously shoved out of the way. He had maps on his chest, one laying hallway across his face. Sherlock didn't even know when John had succumbed, so intent was he on finding the connections between Blackwood Chemical and Death. His intuition was screaming at him that there was something there, something important.

_I know she chose that place for a reason other than convenience. It means something to her. She has a connection to it, or Moriarty did. She does this all for him; to avenge his death. Never mind that he willingly took his own life, she needs to avenge him. _

_This is all very personal. She took Donovan from Lestrade, Anthea from Mycroft, and Molly from me. She corrected Moriarty's mistake by taking Molly, she knows Molly matters to me. She has both inspired us by taking the women, and crippled us. For all the resources at our disposal, even if we did find them, she would kill her prisoners if we made one move against her. She has every advantage, and she knows it. Why take them?... Ah, that's why. To hurt us. To hurt me. The more pain we feel, the greater her revenge._

_She has everything she needs, but for one thing. She doesn't have John yet. I know that's her endgame. She gets John, she kills me. I would Fall from any height to save him, and this time there will be no safety net. If she gets John, I am dead. She has had plenty of chances to capture John since my return, since Moran's arrest. John was on his own for a few days before he returned to Baker Street. Before he became my lover…._

_Why did she wait? I would've sacrificed myself for him regardless of the context of our relationship, why would she wait until we were together before starting this? Why not shoot me as I stepped out of my flat, or kill me with a car bomb? _

_She has had the advantage on me for years, not just since my Return. How does she want me to die?_

There was a ruffling of papers from the settee, and the maps that had been resting on John's face fell to the floor as the doctor moved in his sleep. Sherlock stopped his whirling thoughts, placing them away for the moment. The sight of John relaxed, sleeping, stole into his heart, stirring the emotion that John had taught him was love. Sherlock had known the touch of love before, but it was different with family. There was almost no need to mention it in one's family, it was something instinctively understood in some ways. Taken for granted as well, for that very reason. But what Sherlock felt for John was beyond that basic emotion of familial love, so far beyond the reach of words. Sherlock could not describe how he felt about John, other than to reduce it to the simplest form. Love.

He had tried that night that John had lost the fortune cookie bet, but Sherlock knew he hadn't done it justice. To just tell John he loved him seemed wrong, as if he were doing it a disservice, what he felt. When John had snapped in the park, the words had come flowing freely of their own accord, as if it were instinct. Sherlock felt in welling up in him now, the urge to protect, shelter his doctor, all stronger in him every day. Sherlock hadn't comprehended the depth for emotions humans were capable of, and it staggered him.

He quietly moved to John's side, and knelt beside the settee. Sherlock lowered himself down until he could look John comfortably in the face, his arm along John's side, his hand resting on his doctor's shoulder. John stirred, but didn't wake. His face rested on Sherlock's hand, as if he knew it was there, even in sleep. The fading light finally gave up, and the room fell into shadow. The hallway lights were on, and cast their light deep into the room, just shy of the settee where he knelt next to his doctor.

Sherlock heard people moving about the house, the marble and wood letting sound carry easily. Mycroft's and Lestrade's people had been in and out all day, and even with all the armed law enforcement surrounding them, Sherlock hadn't let John out of his sight once. Even when John had gone to the bathroom, Sherlock had prowled outside the door. John had merely raised a brow at him, and didn't fuss. Sherlock had been thankful; he couldn't handle the danger John was in if his doctor wasn't cooperating. Or at least allowing Sherlock to stalk him everywhere. The shift in their relationship somehow made it more enjoyable to be by each other's side, constantly. Sherlock may have complained in the past about needing to be left alone, to be at peace, but those moments were gone now. Gone since the instant he realized he had peace with John, and only John.

He felt that peace now, chasing away the worry, the frustration, the disturbing, nagging fear he felt for the very essential Molly Hooper. Sherlock had locked his fear away, refusing to feel it, letting his determination and anger fuel him instead. But now as he rested, he felt that fear for her come sneaking out into the light. Sherlock examined it, and let the peace John gave him exile it. He would do her no good if he was frightened, scared. She was strong, far stronger than even she knew. Sherlock saw it; in the years since the Fall it had grown. Molly would survive until he came for her. He would, and she only needed to make it until he did.

Sherlock was tired, but he refused to sleep. The respite he took for himself now was all he would allow himself.

There was a commotion out in the hall, running feet. Someone was shouting, and Sherlock stood rapidly, his movement waking John.

"What's going on?" John asked, just as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was one of Mycroft's aides, panting heavily from exertion.

"Sir, we need you downstairs, now." The aide didn't even wait, he turned and ran back the way he had come.

Sherlock ran after him, John behind him. They caught up to the aide at the bunker door, Sherlock impatiently shoving him to the side as the door opened.

"What is it? Did you find them?" Sherlock demanded of Mycroft, Lestrade at his side. They were beneath the main bank of screens, and the sorely abused aide took his seat at the station.

"No, someone has found us." Mycroft said, and pointed to one of the screens, where an email icon was blinking. It was the same address that Sherlock had sent his data packet to, full of his research from St Bart's. "No one knows that address other than you, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt his heart jump in his chest, and he inhaled sharply.

"Molly knows it, she saw me enter the address while we were working together in the lab. Death has Molly; this is from her." Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his eyes a mix of guilt and fear. "Open it."

"Sir that may not be wise…" The aide stammered, and Mycroft waved him into silence.

"Scan it quickly, then open it. Hurry."

The scan was quick, over in a flash. It was a video file, a large one. There was a message under the file, simple.

**Someone wants to say goodbye.**

The aide clicked on the file, and opened it on the largest screen.

The video started out in the dark, vague shadows and hints of movement. Whoever was holding the camera soon figured out what they were doing, as the lighting improved, and the picture came into focus.

It was a simple wooden stool placed in front of a white backdrop cloth. The sounds in the video echoed, as if in a large room. There was a scuffling noise, and the men watching the video all stood straighter as they heard a woman's voice complaining in the background. It was Sally Donovan, and she was swearing something vile as she was dragged onscreen. Two men in black masks held her arms, which were handcuffed in front of her. Lestrade pushed forward, and he held his breath as Donovan was forcibly sat on the stool. She had nothing on but a short grey shift, as if she were wearing a large man's shirt, covering her just past her thighs.

One of the men backhanded her, the other holding her up under the vicious blow. Blood dripped from her mouth, and she spit it on the floor. Lestrade backed up a step, hands going to his head, his face a mask of anger and fear.

"Enough." A voice came from the video, off screen. It was cultured, sweet, amiable, and all wrong for the context of what they were watching. "Sally, dear, do I need to remind you again of what happens when you are foolish?"

They watched in dreadful surprise as Sally immediately stopped struggling, and sat still on the stool, her eyes flashing brightly with terror. She sat still, so still the men let her go, as if expecting her full compliance. They left the screen, and the sleek form of Death walked into view. She wasn't masked, she had no need. She walked gracefully behind Sally, one delicate hand trailing along the police woman's shoulder, tugging playfully on her tight curls. Sally started to shake, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. She seemed to be staring straight out to the heart of the man who watched her, wishing she were free. Death turned to the camera, and they could clearly see the madness on her face, her eyes burning with insanity. She smiled, and kept one hand lightly on Sally's shoulder.

"Gregory Lestrade." She said, her voice magnetic, as if she were there in the room. "Do listen carefully. Go ahead, Sally. Say your piece."

Death smiled encouragingly at Donovan, who bit her lip before sitting up straighter on the stool. Some fire came back into her eyes, and anger tightened her jaw.

"I won't play your game, you crazy bitch." Sally growled. She flinched back, as Death lifted her hand, as if she expected a blow. Instead Death placed her fingers lightly under Sally's chin, and she leaned in close, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She whispered something in Sally's ear, and the fight drained out of her. Gone, just gone. Sally was defeated by a kiss from Death.

Death pulled back, and walked a few steps away, and the camera zoomed in on Donovan.

"My name is Sally Donovan." She whispered, as if reciting something from memory. "I am a sergeant at Scotland Yard. My superior officer and department head is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have worked for him for several years." Her voice stumbled, like she was afraid to say what came next.

"And I love him. I love you Greg." She choked, and pulled in some air. "It has been the greatest honor of my life to serve at your side, under your command. Yet I carry the shame of making you doubt Sherlock Holmes, that in my stubbornness and contempt I nearly ruined us both."

"I am here because you love me, too." Sally closed her eyes, refusing to look at the camera as she kept going. "Gregory Lestrade loves me. And he loves Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes cares for him in return."

"I am here to make a wound, to cut you, hurt you, Greg. Your pain will then hurt Sherlock. Just as my death will hurt you…" She started to sob, her eyes opening at last. "As John Watson's death will hurt Sherlock."

Lestrade was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating, tears running down his face. He had a death grip on the chair beside him, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. The camera zoomed out, Death coming back into frame. She was walking lightly, almost dancing, and she was flipping a silver bladed knife in the air. Sally sat shivering on the stool, her eyes overrun by tears.

"Greg…. I'm sorry." Sally whispered, as Death lifted the blade high over Sally, her arm holding it at the apex, before bringing it down, so swift their eyes couldn't follow.

Lestrade screamed, his voice full of anguish, despair, terror. He screamed her name, over and over again. His screams filled the great stone room, bouncing off the walls. He pulled back from the screens, pushing past the men standing in horrified shock behind him. Lestrade ran only a few feet, before he collapsed to his knees on the stone floor. He was quietly crying her name, voice choking on his tears.

Sally had fallen from frame as Death struck her with the long blade, limp and landing hard. The others watched, frozen in horror, as Death flipped the red-streaked knife a couple of more times in her hand. They couldn't see Sally's body, they couldn't tell if she were alive or dead. Death stopped spinning the knife, and she held it so they could see. Blood coated the long edge, bright crimson in the light. She smiled at them through the camera, and brought the blade to her lips. The tip of her pink tongue flicked out, and licked the blood from the blade's edge. There was screaming in the background. Women's screams.

The video ended, silence descended with finality in the bunker. Only Gregory Lestrade's sobs could be heard.

* * *

Lestrade shattered. John sat with him, as Greg leaned over his knees, head in his hands, tears running from his eyes unchecked. He was quiet now, his voice robbed from him by his harsh screams of denial. He couldn't do anything, capable of only crying, his heart-broken by the loss of his fellow officer, his friend. She had been right in the video message, Sally. He did love her, very much. Lestrade cried for the woman he couldn't save, her life stolen by a madwoman.

John had his arm around Lestrade's waist, and he leaned into the Inspector. He didn't care that it was more personal than either of them would usually be comfortable with, he did it anyway. He put his head to the other man's shoulder, and kept silent. He knew well the terrible burden of fresh grief, knew that there was nothing to do but let the waves carry you under until you drowned in them. The only thing you could do was hope you had something to anchor you through the worst of it.

There were still in the bunker, the room emptied by Mycroft when the video ended. They were on the couch at the far side of the room, in an area that had a vague impression of a break area. John doubted Lestrade was even aware of where he was, much less what the other men were doing. Mycroft and Sherlock sat at the computer station, and they were subtly analyzing the video file from Death. They had the screens turned, so that Lestrade couldn't see. No sound came out, the Holmes brothers focusing on the visual aspects of the video. John watched them, his chin resting on Lestrade. The other man didn't push him away, and John knew that Lestrade needed the contact.

John caught Mycroft looking at them, his eyes haunted. John held his gaze, until the MI6 man let his drift to the broken DI. Sherlock didn't even notice his brother's focus had wandered, so intent was he on the video. John could see the misery, the fear, everything so clear in the other man's eyes, Mycroft so easily read by the doctor. For all his face remained an impassive façade, his eyes held the truth. He wanted to be were John was, and he hadn't a clue how to go about it. He most likely had no idea he even wanted it, too.

John's heart was whispering to him, a hint of an idea. Lestrade was trapped, caught up in his grief, and John was only able to provide a fraction of the comfort Greg would get from the person he truly needed now. Who John knew would help him most. John caught Mycroft's eye as he sneaked another peek at the men on the couch. He held it, and lifted his free hand, and beckoned to the older man. Mycroft got a pinched look around his eyes, conflicted. John beckoned again, letting his own face show his exasperation. Mycroft's eyes darted to Greg, before quickly coming back to his. John tried to impress upon the MI6 man that this was not the time for cowardice, and Mycroft got the hint.

He pushed back from the computers, and tentatively began to walk over. Sherlock didn't even twitch; unaware his brother was attempting to break his own cardinal rule: Don't get involved.

John held tightly to Lestrade as Mycroft came over, the older man's hands alternating between occupying each other, and hiding in his pockets. The elder Holmes had no notion what to do, and John took pity on him. Lestrade was lost in a maze of grief and shock, and he was unaware of everything around him. John extended his free hand as Mycroft came within reach, and grabbed his wrist. John tugged an unresisting Mycroft towards him, as he withdrew his arm from Lestrade's waist. John stood slowly, and pulled Mycroft into his place. He was stiff, and John caught a tremor in his tall frame, as he took Mycroft by the shoulders, and sat him down next to Lestrade.

If the last few hours hadn't been so very terrible, so depressingly final, the look on Mycroft's face would have made John break out with laughter. Mycroft was looking at Lestrade like the other man was the most frightening, and the most wonderful, person in the world. John felt a tiny crack appear in his already battered heart, and he mimed to Mycroft that he should put his arm around Greg, just like John had been holding him.

Lestrade hadn't moved, or responded, or reacted in any way the entire time John had been holding him, in the hours since Sally fell from sight in the video. He had screamed out her name, begging for God to spare her, and then he had fallen silent. Tears of acceptance, and honest grief had been flowing since, Greg Lestrade overwhelmed. He sat with his hands covering his face, head down, shoulders trembling.

When Mycroft sat next to him, and raised a timid hand to the DI's shoulder, Lestrade shook harder, and moved. He didn't move far, or much, but he leaned into that hand. He leaned into Mycroft, and the Holmes brother tightened his grip, and inched closer to Lestrade on the couch. Mycroft lost that fearful expression, and he looked determined, eyes locked on the man next to him. He looked like Sherlock in that moment, when confronted by a case he refused to leave unsolved.

John took one last look at them, before tucking his hands in his pockets, and walked towards his own Holmes.

John walked up behind Sherlock, where he sat in the chair, and wrapped an arm tight around Sherlock's shoulder and neck, tucking his hand under Sherlock's arm. John hugged his love to him, dropping his face into the dark, wild curls on Sherlock's head. John let a tear slip out, and stayed where he was, breathing Sherlock in. Sherlock said nothing, just lifted a hand, and took hold of John's arm in a firm grip, his thumb rubbing on his sleeve.

John held Sherlock, as Sherlock dug for clues. John found himself appreciating Sherlock's capacity to keep going, to focus, regardless of what horrible things were happening. The disciple was tearing them down, one by one. John feared the next video that Death would send, so obvious was her plan to demoralize them, render them useless by grief.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, his face still buried in the detective's curls.

"Hmm?" Sherlock stopped his analysis, waiting.

"I need you to make me a promise." John said, and lifted his face from the soft curls. He turned Sherlock in the chair, his detective facing him. He stepped in close, one hand cupping Sherlock's face, thumb caressing the sharply defined cheekbone, the pale skin.

"What promise?" Sherlock whispered back, his hand rising to hold John's hand to his face. Sherlock was very serious, eyes searching John's for a hint of what he wanted.

"Don't play her game." John said, and he leaned down, his forehead to Sherlock's. "No matter what happens: If she manages to get me, if she threatens to blow up London, if she holds the world hostage- Don't play her game."

Sherlock tensed, but John stopped him, and looked Sherlock deep his eyes.

"You win when you figure out the rules. Promise me you won't let her dictate the game."

Sherlock leaned back, mildly surprised by the intensity and fervor of John's words. His doctor was adamant, eyes serious.

"If she captures me, if she hurts me, you do everything you can to stop her. No matter what happens. Don't let her use me to control you."

"John, I won't endanger…." Sherlock tried to speak, but John cut him off.

"She destroyed Lestrade with a single video. A horrible, evil video, but she still did it. And she's going to do it again. She still has Anthea, and Molly. She wants to kill you, but not until she's killed me. She's controlling everything. Controlling you. Don't let her. Do whatever you have to, whatever it takes. Just don't let her win."

Sherlock couldn't speak, his wish to keep John safe obvious in his face, refusing to listen. John caught him tightly, both hands holding Sherlock still.

"Promise me." John told him, kissing Sherlock firmly. "Now."

"John….." Sherlock shut up at the look on John's face. John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock found himself slowly nodding.

"I promise." Sherlock whispered, and John swooped down for a kiss, tongues and lips tangling.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around his doctor's waist, John flush against him, hands cradling Sherlock's face. The kiss was deep, and powerful. John kissed Sherlock as if they would never have the chance again, both their lives cut short any second. Too many wasted moments, too many years spent pretending they weren't each other's soul mates. Death was stalking them, and any minute could be their last.


	28. Deception, Part One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**Warning: Extreme sadness, violence, and serious heart-break. If you can stay strong, and read this through to the end, I promise that you will be rewarded in the next chapter. I broke this up into two pieces, as the entire chapter was 30 pages long. **

**Be strong. Read on. Next chapter drops soon. **

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

"_**Deception, Part I"**_

Mycroft watched Lestrade breathe; his chest rise and fall in slumber. The DI was passed out in Mycroft's room, where he had ended up the night before. His very big bed somehow seemed smaller with the other man spread across the blankets. Mycroft felt a warm flood of something new swell up from his core, making him want to step nearer to the bed. To reach out, hand to warm skin, and feel his pulse….

John came up behind him in the doorway, looking carefully into the room.

"He still out, then?" John asked quietly, eyes scanning the prone figure. The doctor had helped Sherlock carry Lestrade out of the bunker the night before, and Mycroft's room was the nearest, with a big enough bed. Anthea's room down the hall just didn't seem right to intrude upon. Mycroft had sat in his armchair next to the window, checking updates on his mobile, eyes drifting over the DI as he slept throughout the night. Mycroft had made a very quiet call early in the morning, excusing Lestrade's absence from work at Scotland Yard, temporarily assigning him to MI6. Lestrade was incapable of facing the world today.

John and Sherlock had spent the night, in the room next door. Mycroft felt unsettled, sleeping in the same house as his little brother; something he hadn't done since he was a very young man, coming home from university during the holidays. Having so many people in his home was disconcerting, in the areas he reserved for himself, and only in the last few years, Anthea. She had moved herself in, as constantly being woken in the middle of the night, and really all hours of the day, by incessant calls and orders had been very inconvenient. He had let her do it, and said nothing. She had known he knew, and all she did was smile at him across the table the next day at breakfast.

Mycroft felt a small smile attempt to move him, as he flashed back to the very powerful memory. It was the first time he had ever let someone make their own decision about his life since he became an adult. And Mycroft hadn't minded at all. He knew he rationalized it by saying having her here in his home was more convenient, but truly, he knew it was because he cared. He, the Iceman, Mycroft Holmes, cared for someone he wasn't related too. Mycroft couldn't even remember when she stopped being just another aide, and became his. And now his Anthea was in danger, and he was useless. She was out there in the hands of pure evil. Madness had his girl, his Anthea.

Mycroft tore his gaze away from the DI, uncomfortable. He had been staring at the man sleeping in his bed, and felt a strange sensation creep from the depths as he thought of Anthea. Mycroft was torn, and he didn't know why. It felt like someone was waiting impatiently for him to answer an important question, to do something, and he was lost as to what it was.

"He slept all night. He didn't wake up once." Mycroft murmured back, and stepped back into the hall, pulling the door shut as he did.

"Did you sleep?" John asked, the shorter man looking up at him, a touch of professional concern evident in his eyes. And there seemed to be something else, a secret in the doctor's eyes, like he knew the answer to what was bothering Mycroft.

"I share more than a name with Sherlock, Dr Watson. I rarely sleep." Mycroft said, and he turned down the hall, John stepping with him.

Mycroft paused beside Anthea's room, her door open, the room dark, even in the morning sun. The curtains were drawn, and he could just see the base of her bed, her bags from the aborted trip to the countryside sitting forlornly on the comforter. Mycroft stiffened, and walked on. John stayed a moment, and the evidence of a woman's touch within the space clicked for him. Anthea lived with Mycroft, and John had never known. Sherlock would know, yet he never said anything either.

John watched the tall lanky form of the oldest Holmes disappear down the stairs, presumably going to the breakfast room. The Holmes men were more than they appeared. The younger with the attitude of a sociopath and a hero's heart; and the eldest, cold and ruthless, with a hidden vulnerability, seen only by a few.

* * *

Lestrade didn't know where he was. It was beyond him to care. The blanket beneath his face was soft, the scent foreign and eerily familiar. His head was foggy, his eyes burning, his throat sore. Every muscle in his body hurt, hurt badly.

He rolled on to his back, arms shaking. The world hurt, it all hurt. It all hurt. The feeling of the soft bed beneath him was like daggers on his skin. The warmth of the sun stabbed him, the cold air from the autumn chill razed his lungs, the clothes on his back choking him. Every sense was attacking him, ripping into him.

He was rolled under by the torrent of memory. It came crashing in from the darkness of his soul, tearing him apart. He couldn't turn it off, he couldn't escape. Reality tore him to shreds. She was gone. Gone because he loved her, because she loved him back. The blade flashing silver in the light, her blood red on its edge. Her body falling from the stool, limp. He hadn't seen her hit the floor, but the sound had carried across on the video, and he could hear her hit. The hollow thud of a corpse. Not a person anymore.

_Sally. Sally. I was supposed to keep you safe. It was my job. My responsibility._

It came back hard, roaring at him. Greg Lestrade screamed under its weight, the force of his grief, fueled by guilt, fighting its way free in the cold morning.

* * *

His scream tore through the house, horrendous in its power. Grief shook the foundations of the world within the townhouse.

The two Holmes brothers and John were in the kitchen, grabbing something to eat before heading back to the bunker. Mycroft was standing sipping tea, his mobile in his hands, just staring at the empty screen, wishing he could get some useful bit of information.

Lestrade's scream reverberated through the kitchen, and Mycroft jerked as if he had been stabbed. The teacup hadn't even hit the floor before Mycroft was out the door, running for the stairs. He took them three at a time, not caring that he left his brother and John struggling to catch up. He ran for his room, the man he had left sleeping. Another scream ripped down the hall, bouncing off the hard walls, slamming with terrible force on Mycroft's ears. He had to get to him, there was nothing left to do but push harder those last few steps.

Mycroft tore into his room, and headed for the bed, and the man tearing into the blankets. Lestrade was nothing but misery, guilt, despair, and he couldn't keep it in. Mycroft jumped to the bed beside the detective inspector, and grabbed him. Mycroft pulled him up, ignoring the fists striking out, hands digging, tearing at him. He held Greg tightly to his chest, the police man's screams muffled in his shirt. His hands came up, and Mycroft tensed for the blow, but it never came. Arms wrapped around his torso instead, and Lestrade began to shake. His screams dissolved into sobs, and both men shook with the force of them.

Sherlock was in the doorway, arm out to keep John from going in the room. John braced himself on Sherlock's arm, mouth agape at the sight before him. Sherlock was having trouble on his own, a strong part of him telling him to go in there, to try and offer something to the broken man his brother held so tightly. Lestrade was damn near in Mycroft's lap, his big brother's arms holding Lestrade securely to his chest, one hand buried in the silver hair of the weeping man. Mycroft was crying silently, his own tears falling unnoticed down his cheeks as he let the grief pour out from Lestrade.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, and pulled his doctor to his chest. Sherlock lowered his head to John's and the doctor held him as tears slid out from under his lashes. Sherlock was crying, for the man who grieved for the woman he loved so much, and Sherlock cried for his brother, at the tears another human's pain wrought from Mycroft.

John held Sherlock, his own eyes wet, and he watched the two on the bed. John cursed himself for wishing for something to show Mycroft how to be human. It had come, but at a terrible price. It had cost a life.

* * *

Anthea sat at the base of the wall in their cage, Molly huddled along her side. The pathologist was better off physically than the MI6 agent, but she was far more traumatized. They had been forced to watch as Death filmed her message to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and the horrible events that followed. Molly had dissolved, a ruined mass of helpless fear and grief. She had sat and rocked herself to sleep the night before, as close to Anthea as she could get. During the night, Molly had cried out in her sleep, something about '_she has his eyes_', over and over. Anthea had wanted to ask Molly what that meant, but she knew the other woman was too fragile, and needed what little sleep she was getting.

Anthea knew well that Donovan had been a friend to the pathologist, the two women colleagues for years. Anthea hadn't known the officer that well, only seeing her when she summoned Lestrade to Mycroft's side, or other random moments of chance. But she had been a capable, strong and stubborn woman, and she hadn't deserved the death she had gotten.

It still troubled Anthea, the way she had fallen from the stool, the way Death had struck at her with the blade. It had been very impressive, very showy. As if Death was going for the visual impact of a horrid death, and not an efficient one. Death was all cool efficiency, deadly and ruthless. The way she ended Donovan was out of character. Sally had still fallen, and Death's minions had dragged her limp body from the room, with a trail of blood on the floor behind them.

Anthea watched the men in the room, as they prepped gear, checked their weapons, and talked in small groups. There was more than the dozen or so she had seen the day before, Anthea guessed nearly thirty men in total. Most likely more, as they kept coming and going from the ballroom, and she was having trouble keeping track of that many people through the pain.

Anthea's hand was broken, and she had several small shards of metal and wood imbedded in the flesh of her hand. When Death had shot the gun from her hand, the impact had broken several bones, and the bullet hitting the wood door had added to the damage. Anthea feared she would never have full use of her hand again, even if she managed to survive this captivity. She had attempted to use a portion of her shift as a bandage, and she had stopped most of the blood flow. Anthea held her arm tightly to her chest, and blood had soaked through the front of her shift. She had lost close to two pints from the way she felt, weak and dizzy, but not too severe. As long as she moved slowly, she was okay.

She had dozed overnight, waking from the pain, as her body jerked in sleep. Molly had been a welcome source of heat through the night, as their captors had seen fit to punish them further by removing their clothes and giving them these cotton shifts to wear instead. Anthea had expected it; it was one way to insure cooperation from captives, by making them as vulnerable as possible. Being this close to naked worked. They were tossed bottles of water, and fruit, and every few hours three men armed to the teeth would escort them to the bathroom. One would stay with them the whole time, and Anthea had stamped down her rage at the indignity of it. She hadn't been allowed to tend her hand, roughly pulled from the bathroom once she finished using the toilet.

There was some sort of mission prep going on, as a dozen or so men were being briefed on the far side of the room. Anthea was too far away to see what it was, or to hear, but there was a large map on the wall, and the mission leader was assigning what looked like parts of an assault. Anthea wished she were able to see, to hear. Any information she could gleam from her captivity could help the others find them, or at least stop Death. Anthea knew her time would soon come to be filmed, and she wanted to do everything she could to help Mycroft and Sherlock find Death. Anthea had no hope of surviving her video message. She knew she was going to die.

She watched, half awake, and flooded by a fresh wave of pain when Molly jerked in her sleep. A door on the far side of the room opened, and a small figure stepped into the ballroom. Anthea was too far away to hear anything, but she easily recognized the blonde head of Mary Morstan. The female assassin was wearing normal street clothes, dark denim jeans and a dark blue jumper that hugged her curves and made her hair shine brighter. She walked straight to the group of men getting briefed, and Anthea watched in amazement as the men parted for her easily, their demeanor screaming she was in charge. Mary perused the map on the wall, asking questions of the mission leader, and he answered promptly, filling her in on details. Mary nodded, and continued to study the map. Whatever was going to happen, it would be soon. Mary was planning something, something big.

* * *

Mary stood outside the cage, looking down at the women sleeping on the floor. Mary knew Molly, but she had never met Anthea. Donovan had been a taboo subject back when she was with John, as the very mention of that woman had enraged the doctor. Mary felt her heart stir, as Molly whimpered in her sleep. Anthea was cradling the pathologist with her uninjured arm, despite her own condition. Mary hadn't been present when Anthea had staged their attempted escape, and from all accounts it had been smoothly done. If not for Death's timely arrival, they may have made it outside. But not much farther, as the grounds were patrolled and there were many more men here than the prisoners had seen.

Death came up behind her, and stood quietly at her shoulder, watching the women as well.

"What has you so troubled, Mary?" Death asked, her voice low, avoiding the room's tendency to echo.

"Cruelty is not part of me. I enjoy the spilling of blood, the violence. But cruelty is beyond me." Mary replied, unafraid to speak her mind.

"It is a part of me, though." Death replied, her hand rising to Mary's shoulder. "Don't be worried, Mary. They are only the tools I use to harm my true victims; their ordeal shall soon be over. I promised you, after all."

Mary nodded, remembering the morning she cried in this very room, Death holding her as she wept out her rage and pain. Death had asked for her help, detailing her plans for Sherlock Holmes and his friends. Mary had agreed to participate, for two things in return. That she help Mary stop Magnussen, and to obtain a new identity; and the last was that she show mercy. Not to Sherlock or John- but to the tools of their destruction.

"They have only a few more hours in that cage, before the second stage is over, and then they can join Donovan. A merciful end is what I promised you, and they shall get it." Death gripped her shoulder one more time, and walked away.

Mary stared down at the women, and knew she had bargained all she could for them. Death was not naturally bent towards mercy, but she seemed willing to offer it on Mary's behalf. The woman known as Death only acted close to human when she was with Mary, the madness settled down, like a dragon well fed and sleeping in its cave. Mary did not know what to make of that, the reactions she garnered from Death, just by being in the same space.

Anthea slept on, but Molly stirred. Mary held her breath, afraid the woman had heard; that she was awake. Molly never opened her eyes, and settled back into Anthea's side. Mary waited, and when Molly remained still, she pulled herself away from the cage, and back to the mission.

* * *

Sherlock was pawing through stacks of paper, most of it twenty years old, and many of them older. He was looking for the deed to Blackwood Chemical, to see who owned it. Sherlock knew, he just knew, that there was something connecting Blackwood to Death. To Moriarty. She had deliberately chosen the chemical facility as her debut. And she knew it wouldn't be easy for Sherlock to find the connection. It was as if she had foreseen his difficulty, and set the information like a time-delayed bomb of knowledge. Sherlock would find the connection either too late to stop her, or just when she needed him to know.

Sherlock had sworn to John that he wouldn't play her game, and so he needed to find the connection sooner rather than later. He had been a step behind this woman the entire game; she was a match indeed for her deceased master. Her ability to show them all just how helpless they were to stop her was daunting, and Sherlock felt a grudging sense of admiration for her skills. She outclassed even The Woman.

Sherlock had attempted to find the information digitally, but had come up empty. Most records within the system had been updated, but recent titles and deeds had been digitalized as priority, and the older bits of information had been wait listed for input. Anything at the twenty year mark or older would eventually get there, and since the property was condemned by the government and promptly forgotten, it was unlikely it would have even been entered into the system.

So Sherlock had sent some minions out for the hard copies of records for properties in the area of Blackwood, raiding the public records offices with impunity. They had brought back boxes of paperwork, and Sherlock wasted no time in tearing them apart.

He had given up trying to trace the email, the one sent with the video. It was designed for secure transactions, to be untraceable. They were foiled in tracking Death by their own precautions.

It was late afternoon now, approaching the same time of the previous day's video message. John had been right, last night when he confessed his fears that Death would send a video until her hostages were dead. Sherlock dreaded the news of its arrival, for it would been he was failing. Sherlock Holmes didn't fail. Ever. And yet he was. He was letting this madwoman win, destroy their lives.

Sherlock lashed out, his foot connecting solidly with a nearby chair, sending it slamming into the wall. It broke and the snapping of wood was loud in the room. He closed his eyes; hands curled into fists at his sides, and strove for control. He couldn't let his emotions take precedence; he had to remain focused.

He had studied the video of Donovan's execution for clues to where Death was, where she was holding her hostages. The room the video was recorded in had been large, the floor solid wood, and the backdrop had concealed enough of the wall behind it to offer vague hints of wood lined walls. Large wooden room, shrouded. A place that had been locked up perhaps, as the owners were away? You only shrouded a room when you were expecting to be away for a long time. It made sense, taking over an empty property to hold out in. Not that this revelation was at all useful. There were possibly millions of likely candidates for empty places to hide in in the whole of England.

"Sir?" Came the timid voice from the doorway.

Sherlock turned to the door, his face an emotionless mask, belaying the wreckage of the room, the papers scattered everywhere. An aide was waiting, and Sherlock knew what words were to fall from his lips.

"There's another message. Your brother and Dr Watson are waiting." The aide stuttered, and disappeared.

Sherlock went cold all over, air in short supply. He waited a moment longer, a moment longer to avoid the inevitable. He flashed back to Mycroft's words, uttered so long ago now.

"_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

* * *

Mary waited with her team, as they geared up in the ballroom. The plan was a complex one, and she needed her people in position before she went. It was a stroke of genius, and Mary found herself idly wishing it had been her idea. Death had planned this all out, substituting Mary for herself, and the change merely improved the whole.

Mary felt for her weapon, a small Beretta snug under her dark blue jumper, tucked into the bottom of her bra. She would only need it if Sherlock intended to kill her once the mission began. And considering the video Death had just sent, and the one being filmed now, he just might. She wouldn't be using her Beretta unless she had no other choice. Death had given her a special weapon to use tonight, and Mary had found herself again impressed by the younger woman's innovation.

Mary felt a vague stirring of guilt, her stomach getting queasy. She stamped down on it hard, eradicating her emotional response. She cast her eyes over to the far side of the room, where Molly Hooper sat dejectedly on the stool, the camera filming. Mary looked away, and her stomach complained again.

She walked quickly from the room, so none of the members of her team would see her get sick. She made it to the bathroom just in time, and vomited into the toilet. She sat on the cool floor until her body calmed down, and she flushed, standing slowly. She didn't know how long she had been in there, but it was long enough for Death to have finished the video. She was waiting just inside the door, and watched as Mary rinsed out her mouth in the sink.

"You've been sick a lot, Mary." Death stated, no emotion in her voice. Her eyes followed Mary's movements, looking for the cause of her illness.

Other than being pale, and thirsty, Mary now felt fine. She glared at her reflection, and blew out a breath.

Mary stared at herself in the mirror, and she felt a quiver of doubt race over her heart. What was she doing? Was she so conflicted that she was making herself ill? Killing for something other than duty and a paycheck was so foreign.

"I'm not used to killing for emotional reasons. It's against all my conditioning, my training. But so is failure. Once I start a mission, I never fail. I'll be fine." Mary said, throwing away her paper towel, and facing Death without showing a trace of doubt.

The younger woman looked at her, head to toe. She seemed to be measuring the depths of Mary's convictions. Mary let her look, knowing she would only see her determination to finish. Mary never failed a mission. Ever.

"I hope so, Mary. One of us needs to survive this, and it certainly shouldn't be me." Death said, and smiled slightly. "Are you ready? I'm about to send the teams into position, and once you've left, I'll send the last video. Should give you enough time to get in place before I head out."

"I'm ready." Mary nodded, and walked out of the bathroom, back into the ballroom. The men were waiting, the twenty-four of them dressed accordingly to their specific duties during the mission. Some were in uniforms, others in street clothing, and the few in tactical gear stood to the side. The far side of the ballroom was empty, the cell unlocked and vacant. Mary felt it again, the stirring of guilt, and pushed it away. She couldn't focus on them now, she had a mission to complete. She knew Death had kept her promise, and that was enough.

Mary turned to face Death, who had stopped next to her gear, where it was waiting on the table nearest the door.

"You choose, Mary. Fist, or asp." Death asked her.

"Fist, please. I'll need to be able to see for this to work, after all. Just make it look good." Mary shook out her arms, and refused to let herself tense up.

Death was very fast, she couldn't deny that. Her fist flashed out from nowhere, cracking Mary across the cheek. The blow staggered her, and one of the men caught her as she stumbled. She put a hand to her cheek, and moved her jaw. Nothing broken. Yet. The pain stirred her blood, and Mary growled in anticipation. Death could do better.

"You hit like such a girl. C'mon, try again. Give me shiner." Mary came back for more, and grinned in delight as Death shook out her fist. Death just cocked a brow at her, a matching grin growing on her lips, and she swung again.

* * *

Sherlock entered the bunker, slowly this time. The world was waiting on him, the email unopened, waiting on the screen where the one before it had played. John came to his side as he stopped before the screens, Mycroft sitting at the station, his hands clutching his knees. Sherlock nodded to the aide, who silently opened the message.

**Her devotion to you is impressive, Mycroft.**

The video played.

Anthea was seen immediately, seated on the stool, and the camera was steady, as if on a tripod, unwavering. She was dressed much as Donovan had been, a short grey shift barely covering her, this one shorter on her than on Donovan.

The bottom hem was ripped off, and wrapped around the ruin of her hand and arm. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage, and where she held her arm to her chest, blood had dried in a river down her front. Mycroft swore under his breath at the sight, leaning forwards in his chair.

Anthea wasn't crying, nor did she look frightened. Her long slim legs were bare, and crossed neatly on the stool. She was very pale, blood loss obviously the cause. Her hair was a wild mess, her face tired and streaked with blood, but she was lovely despite all that, and there was smile on her lips. She stared into the lens of the camera as if she was there in the room with them all, and she smiled only for Mycroft. Her bright green eyes were shining, affection lighting them from within. There was that special tilt to her lips, the one she gave when she found the world amusing, yet she couldn't summon the bother to laugh at it. Her posture spoke of calm certainty, and grace. Anthea was not afraid.

"Mycroft." Her voice was soft, and strong. She said his name as if it were a benediction, caressing the air in the space between them. "Listen to me carefully, sir."

Mycroft cringed as she called him 'sir', his heart breaking apart in his chest. It was the way she always said it, as if he were the only man in the world worth the title.

"Death has promised me that I may speak my mind if I tell you what she wants me to say first. So here are her words, as she has asked me to repeat them. I had meant to pass you a message, but I know that is folly, for I wish for my last words to be uncensored. For my cooperation, she will make it quick."

Mycroft shuddered, and John held tighter to Sherlock.

"The world knows me as Anthea, and I am an MI6 agent, the personal aide to Mycroft Holmes, director for MI6. I am here because I love you, and regardless of what the world thinks, you love me in return. I am to cripple you, to draw out your will as poison from a wound. My death is to kill your strength. As John Watson's death will kill Sherlock's."

Death moved into the frame of the video, her hands held behind her back. She said nothing, just went to stand behind Anthea's shoulder, and stood waiting. Anthea glanced back at her, and Death nodded, as if giving permission. Death's demeanor spoke of respect, an odd attitude for her to hold for the woman bleeding on the stool. The men watching tensed up, fearing what was coming. They saw no weapon, yet Death's hands were hidden from them, and the fate she held for Anthea could be terrible.

"Mycroft. My Mycroft." Anthea whispered, her voice still clear and strong, yet intimate, private. She didn't care that others were listening, watching. She spoke only for Mycroft.

"The name I carry is not mine, chosen in a moment of silliness, and yet you called me that, embracing it as you embraced me. The day I came from headquarters to be an aide for you was a day I shall never forget. The rumors of your heartless, ruthless ways and cold intelligence had been passed among the agency for years, and everyone dreaded being assigned to you."

Anthea smiled, as if she knew a secret. "I wasn't afraid. I didn't care about rumors, and how big your legend had gotten. And after I met you? Why, I was confounded. Where had these tales of a heartless man come from? Where was the Iceman I had heard so much about? Only fearful fools believed such things, only idiots failed to see past the armor you carry so securely around yourself."

Her smile grew into a grin, and her voice carried a hint of laughter. "Mycroft. All I saw when I met you was a great man. Fiercely intelligent, deeply loyal, with a depth of character that made all other men lesser creatures. Your devotion to our country and your family inspires me. I gave you my loyalty, these past years of my life without hesitation. For you, nothing was too great a price."

"So I want you to know, I fought to get back to you. Back to my life, my life with you. I am injured because I fought to escape, and nearly succeeded. I almost saved the others." Anthea stopped, and took a deep breath. She smiled one last time, her gaze for Mycroft, the man watching her as if she were his world.

"You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"

A noiseless sob was ripped from Mycroft, and he nodded, unable to stop the specter of doom that stood behind Anthea. The MI6 agent sucked in a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back, and let it out. She nodded to the woman behind her, and looked ahead, eyes fixed on the knowledge that Mycroft was watching her. She hadn't cried once.

Death came alive behind Anthea, and one of her hands whipped out, unsnapping an asp. The long black weapon cracked loudly in the quiet, and Mycroft cried out in denial. Death spun it in the air, lightning fast, a blur of motion. Anthea didn't flinch, didn't make a move that said she knew her end was coming. The woman known as Death handled the asp like an extension of her arm, and she moved fast. So fast their eyes were denied seeing the blow that ended Anthea. She fell from the stool, as Donovan had, yet they could see her on the floor, limp, hair covering her face. Blood ran from her nose, and dripped to the floor.

Death twirled the asp, the passage of it moving through the air the only sound to be heard, other than Mycroft's strangled breathing. She raised her arm, and slammed the point of the asp into the hard wooden seat of the stool, collapsing the weapon back into its handle. She looked into the camera, her eyes hard, dead inside. Dark eyes, eyes void of humanity.

There was weeping in the background. Molly's tears.

The video ended.

* * *

John was crying, his hand over his mouth. Death had stolen his voice, with her wordless slaying of Anthea. Sherlock stepped to his brother, who was still, unmoving in his chair.

Anthea's courage at the very end was beyond the measure of words.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, hand outstretched to his older brother.

Mycroft moved. His movements were jerky, as if he were being pulled by strings. He staggered on his feet, and pushed past Sherlock. He went to the computer, and began typing. John went to his side, trying to understand what he was doing. Sherlock groaned, his eyes on the screens.

Mycroft typed in the final commands, and John caught it before he hit Enter.

**Activate: Holmes, Sherlock. Priority ULTRA. Command Status. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.**

Mycroft hit the key, and backed away from the computer. He had no words, nothing to say. His face was vacant, eyes shuttered. Mycroft was shutting down. He turned, and Sherlock followed on his heels as Mycroft left the bunker. John chased after them, as the Holmes brothers were close to running now. Mycroft took the stairs as if they weren't there, moving down the hall, and up the stairs again to the upper floor. John chased Sherlock and Mycroft, panic and pain clouding his thoughts. He feared what Mycroft might do, what Sherlock might not be able to stop him from doing. Mycroft ran like he was out of time, that something was going to happen.

He ran in to his bedroom, and to the bed where Lestrade lay resting. He was awake, and the DI's eyes lit up with the horrible knowledge that it had happened again. Mycroft stopped at the foot of the bed, and his shoulders shook with the tears he couldn't release. Lestrade sat up, and put his hand on the spymaster's. He pulled, lying back down, and Mycroft followed him onto the bed. Mycroft buried himself in Lestrade's chest, and the silver haired man wrapped his arms tightly around him.

Sherlock stood at the side of the bed, and looked down at them. Voiceless tears ran down his face, and Sherlock reached out. He put his hand gently on his brother's shoulder, squeezed. Lestrade caught Sherlock's eyes, and even John could see the fury brewing in them, past the pain and grief.

"Stop her." Lestrade whispered to Sherlock. The detective met his eyes for a long moment, and he nodded.

Sherlock rubbed Mycroft's shoulder once more, before stepping away from the bed. Sherlock collected John at the doorway, and shut the door behind them.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the floor outside Mycroft's door. No sound came through it, nothing. Sherlock leaned into his doctor's shoulder, as John held his arm. Sherlock didn't know how long they had been there, needing to stay nearby, but unwilling to intrude on the grief inside that room. It had been a long time though. A few hours. Night had fallen, deep shadows everywhere.

"John." Sherlock whispered. John looked up at him, from where he was snuggled up against his detective. Sherlock was breaking apart, guilt seeping into the cracks. Helplessness. Doubt.

"Yeah?"

"Molly is next." Sherlock closed his eyes, tears pricking and burning. "And I'm failing her. I failed Donovan, and Anthea. I failed Lestrade. I failed my brother. I don't know how to find them."

John was quiet, his breathing soft. Sherlock leaned into him more, seeking comfort. Anything. He opened his eyes, and saw John watching him, eyes running with tears of his own. His doctor's dark eyes were sad, and help a depth of compassion that Sherlock had never ceased to be amazed by. John Watson was the better man by far. Such a strong heart, an inner core of steel. He had survived so much, so much injury and pain. And he never failed to offer a shoulder to cry on, to support someone in pain. He never hesitated to step up, to do what was necessary. Brave, and strong. John Watson was a fighter.

Sherlock saw this all in his doctor's eyes. Strength, compassion, a kind and loving heart. Sherlock held his gaze, and breathed John in. Took a calm breath, felt his insides settle. Pain was coming, death was among them. But as long as Sherlock had John, he would never be defeated.

John didn't have to say anything. He could see Sherlock's entire heart, in those brilliant eyes. Eyes that were as lovely as stars in the clear night sky. He saw the doubts the detective was battling, the fear he wasn't enough. That for all his hubris, he truly wasn't enough to save the day. Sherlock may claim to not be a hero, but real heroes never claimed the spotlight. Never took credit for their acts. As if they didn't see their actions that way. Sherlock was a great man, who did amazing things. John knew that if the day came that Sherlock sought out glory for glory's sake, that meant John was long dead and buried, and Sherlock was lost. John wasn't worried, he had everything to fight for. Everything to gain by living a long and meaningful life by this man's side.

"If we can't save Molly, if we can't find Death in time, then we will avenge them."

There was a sound down the hall, and Sherlock and John looked up to see an aide hovering on the top step of the stairs.

Sherlock moaned quietly. John saw the look on the aide's face, and swore, his grip on Sherlock tight. The aide gathered his nerve, and came towards them. His posture clearly said he didn't want to be the messenger.

"Sir." The aide stopped a few feet away. "There's been another message. Just came in."

John held Sherlock's arm, as the taller man shook. John's heart was shattering, and they both sat there, as the aide shuffled on his feet, looking at the floor.

_Mollymollymollymollymolly….._ Her name circled in Sherlock's head, and he raised his free hand, and bit it, hard. Sherlock was losing it, and they hadn't even gotten off the floor yet. How was he going to survive watching Molly die?

John choked back a sob, and gathered his feet under him. John let the tears fall. The aide caught his eye, and John nodded at him. He seemed to understand, and he ducked his head, and walked back the way he had come. John watched as Sherlock struggled, and John felt his heart break for his lover. John cared for Molly too; she was smart and funny, and kind. She had done the impossible; she had gotten through to Sherlock Holmes, and she had helped him destroy a monster.

"Don't let Death win, Sherlock." John whispered, and he gently tugged Sherlock's hand out of his mouth, rubbing the deep welts where he had bitten down hard. "Molly needs us now. She needs us to see this."

Sherlock let John lead him to the bunker, let John raise his hand to the panel, unlocking the door. Sherlock was fighting for his control, mind retreating already from the pain. Molly had worked her way into his heart, she truly had. Subtle, essential, Molly Hooper.

John sensed that Sherlock was withdrawing, his eyes colder, the light fading. John struggled for words, for anything to say. There was nothing.

Sherlock knew that Molly was already dead. She most likely died soon after Anthea. These video messages were not live, they weren't broadcast. She had been dead for some time now. Sherlock was certain.

Sherlock stopped halfway across the floor. He dropped John's hand, closed his eyes. Sherlock withdrew fully from the world around him, dropped away until he felt nothing from his body. His mind was where he was strongest, his abilities purest, unfiltered by distracting sensory input. Sherlock opened his eyes to his mind palace, and strode through the doors of St Bart's. He took the illusionary halls to Molly's lab, and stepped inside.

Molly was standing beside her microscope, the one he always used. She never complained when he commandeered it; just let him have her seat, a small smile on her face. Her hair was down, flowing free, so long it fell along her whole back, ending past her hips. Only once before had Sherlock seen her like this, long ago in the cold of the morgue.

This Molly smiled sweetly at him, and reached out her hand, her ring finger bare. Sherlock grasped her small fingers in his long pale ones. She looked up at him, and her voice was an echo of reality, stutter free and without nerves.

"You can do this." Her voice pulling him in, Sherlock stepped closer, just their clasped hands between them. "Death was Moriarty's disciple. He assumed that he would cripple you, force you into defeat by using your heart against you. She does the same. She makes the same moves."

Sherlock knew she wasn't really there, that he was merely speaking to himself. He didn't care, he needed this. He lifted a hand, and pushed her hair from her face, behind her ear. Soft strands, warm skin, same scented shampoo as always. He had known this woman for years, and to his everlasting shame, he had let her believe herself invisible. She was the first to ever find his heart, even before John. Sherlock hadn't known what to do with her, so he just let himself maintain the status quo. It had taken John's effect on his heart to open Sherlock up to Molly, at the last-minute. Her seeing him in those last hours before the Fall, the love and sadness in his eyes as he gazed at John, those words she spoke were forever scorched across his memory.

"Forgive me, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said to her, this ghost. More fool he, for always needing to say those words. "That I could not save you. I didn't know how."

"Sherlock, I will always be with you. Here, where I will never be forgotten. But you must go back, you must let me say goodbye." Her ghost was shimmering, her hand in his disappearing. Before she faded from sight completely, she whispered in his ear. "Don't let me be the reason you miss something. You have been so close, so very close to solving this. Don't let her blind you."

"Open your eyes, Sherlock." And with that, Molly was gone. Sherlock tried to summon her back, to give her substance, but she was gone. He felt a deep sense of loss, as if he had lost a part of himself.

John was worried sick. Sherlock was so deeply shut down, eyes hidden to the world, hands clenched at his side. He looked as if he were fighting, striving to hold on to something with all his might. John couldn't think of what to do, or if he should even do anything. The aide was staring, his own exhausted eyes troubled as he watched the man standing so still in the middle of the room.

Sherlock opened his eyes to the bunker, eyes dry, free from pain and misery. The pathologist's ghost had centered him, released his dread, his guilt. Sherlock would face her last goodbye, no matter what happened, without pain or trepidation. She deserved no less from him. Molly had been right. Death was trying to blind him, remove the threat of him by destroying his heart. She won if he let her.

Sherlock moved to the computer, and pushed the aide aside, out of the chair. He scurried away, and Sherlock took his place. He opened the email, saw the customary message.

**Unrequited love is so painful, isn't it, Sherlock? **

Sherlock queued up the video, and hit play. He stood back up, and backed away, facing the largest screen, getting the best view he could. This farewell was the most important. He would not fail Molly again; he would do his best to avenge her.

Molly was alone on screen, huddled on the stool, shivering. She looked cold, her skin paler than usual, her hands shaking as she clutched a water bottle, half empty. She kept looking past the camera, then back down to the floor. Like a child afraid to speak in front of her class.

Molly took a sip from her bottle, and gathered her courage as best she could. Her eyes lifted to the camera, wincing slightly, as if she was looking in Sherlock's eyes, and not the lens.

"My name is Molly Hooper." She gasped. Her fingers were making the plastic of the bottle crinkle loudly. "I am a pathologist and coroner for St Bart's Hospital. I have worked with Sherlock Holmes for several years. I helped him escape Moriarty on the rooftop. Death says I am not to blame, as I only did what I did because I'm in love with you, Sherlock."

Molly looked down, hands wringing. "And you love another, instead of me."

"So I am to die, to drown you with guilt, for taking such shameless advantage of me, using me to further your own ends. Because Death sees what I really mean to you. My death couldn't hurt you unless you actually cared, so her taking me is proof, I suppose."

Molly wavered, her balance on the stool precarious. Death calmly walked into the picture, and put a steadying hand on Molly's shoulder. Molly looked at her, and blinked slowly.

"Say what you want now, dear. Soon it'll be too late." Death's voice was low, and somehow kind. Molly took another sip of water, the bottle nearly empty, and looked back at the camera.

"Sherlock, I do love you, very much. You were at first a crush, a hopeless dream. Perfect in all the ways I wanted, what I needed. But I knew you were just a dream, an empty wish. You weren't meant for me, but for John. That never stopped me from loving you. Don't be sad, you are worth loving. I regret none of it. Even though I tried to be with someone else, my last thoughts are of you."

"Sherlock?" Molly whispered, and the bottle fell from her grasp, the last drops spilling across the floor. She struggled to stay upright, and Death wrapped her arms around the faltering woman. Molly's head fell back on Death's shoulder, and her eyes latched on to Death's. Her last whisper was low, but came though clearly.

"You have his eyes." Molly sighed. Her eyes shut, and she went limp.

Death lifted a hand to Molly's face, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers slid slowly down to Molly's neck, and hovered over the artery, fingers falling away after a moment's pause.

Death looked down at the floor, and nudged the empty water bottle with her black boot. She lifted her eyes to the camera. The truth of Molly's passing was spilled out on the floor, those last few drops. In her eyes, Sherlock saw a swirling madness. Eyes that looked into him, all the way down to his core.

Molly had died quietly in the arms of Death.


	29. Deception, Part II

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**WARNING: Extreme violence, serious heart ache, and if you have been very brave in reading this all the way through, an emotional Hallelujah at the end. **

**This is the second half of the chapter named Deception. Broken in two due to the size.**

**Thank you to all my followers, reviewers, and everyone who has stopped by to just take a look. **

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

"_**Deception, Part II"**_

Sherlock let the video end, the silence in the large room strangely loud. John standing nearby, not touching him, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. Sherlock had watched the whole video as dispassionately as he could, but he found himself distracted. Molly's whisper had distracted him from the horror of her painless death. By the eyes of Molly's killer. They were so familiar. He knew them somehow.

Sherlock didn't hear the alarms coming from another station. He didn't see the MI6 agents pull up the CCTV videos, the city dark from the moonless night, overcast by heavy cloud cover, rain misting on the streets of London.

Sherlock was hunting for something, a clue so vital he could almost taste it. Molly's passing was a wound bleeding him out, but he stepped away from the pain. Rage and a lust for vengeance tore at his concentration. He strove for the temporary peace that Molly's ghost had given him, but it was all too much. He let it slip, determined to come back too it, now that he had all the time in the world to kill the woman responsible for so much cruelty. So much pain.

Her hostages were dead. The buffer between her and his retribution was gone. She had done so on purpose. She wanted a fight, a bloody battle. Death wanted a war. She would get one.

John had pulled himself from his grief, and was wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Sherlock looked to his lover, and knew with every fiber of his being that John would not share the women's fate. He wouldn't let it happen.

"Sir?" It was that aide again.

"What?" Sherlock growled, voice deep with his anger.

"We got a hit on facial recognition. Just now, sir."

Sherlock felt his rage roar in his heart, blood lust pulling him forward. Sherlock went to the station where the CCTV feeds were being analyzed. John followed, and Sherlock grabbed him close, his inner demons screaming at Sherlock to keep John safe. John didn't fight his tight grip, he let Sherlock hold him.

The video was of a dark wet street on the outskirts of London, just at the last CCTV camera station. The rain was falling, the wind carrying it down hard on the small figure struggling to her feet. A dark car had slowed just enough for her be thrown out, before the door slammed, and it disappeared down the unlit street.

The aides zoomed the feed in, and they watched in real time as Mary Morstan climbed to her feet, using the wall on the building she had fallen against. The camera zoomed in closer, and Sherlock felt John tense up at the sight of her face.

The entire left side of her face was heavily bruised, her eye dark, cheekbone bloody, lip split, and she was holding her side with one arm. They watched as she convulsed, and vomited on the sidewalk. Her long black coat barely shielded her from the rain, she was soaked to the bone in seconds. She leaned against the brick wall, and shook from head to toe. Her head fell back, and the horrible contrast between the undamaged half of her face to the nightmare side was extreme. Her bright blonde hair plastered to her skull, its light dulled.

"Dear God, what the hell happened?" John breathed, shock and fear flooding his eyes. John was pale. "Mary?"

Mary began to walk, shaking hard, almost dragging herself along the wall. She faltered several times, and eventually disappeared from view of the camera.

"Find her again, show me where she's going." Sherlock ordered. Something was off. He felt it.

The cameras switched, and the new view showed her walking to the corner, where the lights from an all-night medical clinic glowed. She fought the wind as it tried to drag her to the ground, crossing the distance to the front doors at a slow, painful pace.

"Sherlock, she's hurt, badly. She could be bleeding internally, for her to vomit like that. She needs help." John said, making as if to leave.

Sherlock's hand snapped out, and locked around John's wrist. John stared at him in surprise, his eyes wide. "Sherlock, she's in serious trouble. That clinic isn't equipped to help her. I don't care what she's done, she needs help."

"John. No." Sherlock growled at his lover, making John's face go blank in shock. "John, this is a trap."

"What the hell do you mean, a trap? How the hell do you know? For all we know, Mary tried to stop Death from killing the girls, and that's what she did to her!" John was shouting, fear clouding his eyes. Part of him was refusing to believe, the stronger part of him screaming at him to go help her.

"John. Stop." Sherlock yanked him back, his grip unrelenting on John's arm. "If that was the case, Mary would be dead. She would not be dropped off at a medical clinic, on the far side of town, _directly under our cameras!"_ Sherlock spit the words out, fear forcing him to be blunt. Cruel.

"She is being hunted by the Americans. She is a wanted woman. An assassin. No matter how badly injured she may be, she would never allow herself to be exposed like this. This is a trap. _It's a trap for you!"_ Sherlock was shouting back at him, conviction pouring from him in waves.

John was struck dumb, his eyes alternating between the woman struggling into the clinic, and his lover. Sherlock was pale, his eyes lit from within, fear and anger obvious.

"She knows you well. That no matter how mad you may be at her, the second she is need of _medical attention_, your instincts to help would kick in. You don't care about whether someone deserves your help, all you care about is saving the life." Sherlock wasn't yelling, but his eyes held John captive, each word being driven home. John felt doubt, in the face of Sherlock's logic. John looked at the video feed, where Mary had stepped into the clinic. Only a few minutes had passed, but John felt like it was an eternity. Sherlock was right. He was always right.

John dropped his head in defeat. He let Sherlock pull him to his chest, and John wrapped his arms around his detective. Sherlock kissed his temple, and spoke over his head.

"Scan the surrounding areas, look for unusual activity. Something suggesting an assault. Five block radius around the clinic. You know what to look for. Do it." Sherlock ordered, and the aides in the room scurried to obey.

"Call up the security teams. I want a team stationed here, two more ready to go as soon as possible. Death is waiting on us."

"She wants you John, and I'm not giving her a chance at you. You're staying here, in this room. No one can get in here, not even the Prime Minister. She cannot get you. This was meant to draw us out, draw you out so she could get you. I'll meet her out there, and use her own trap against her." Sherlock whispered in his ear.

"Sherlock no, let the teams handle this." John lifted his head, meeting his detective's eyes.

"My dear Dr Watson, I have hunted disciples for two years. Let me slay this last one. It is what I'm good at." Sherlock let slip some of his arrogance, pulling a small smile from John at his attitude.

"Dammit, Sherlock. I will kill you if you get hurt." John was terrified. Sherlock kissed him, his mouth demanding, urgent. Sherlock kissed him like they were alone, in their bedroom, with nothing but time on their side. All the time in the world to kiss forever.

"I love you, John Watson." Sherlock whispered against his lips, dipping back in to finish a kiss that should never end.

"Sir, security teams are en route. One stationed here inside the building, and two to go with you." The aide said, and coughed when Sherlock didn't raise his head from John's lips. "They'll be here in ten."

"Send someone for my brother, and DI Lestrade. Inform them of what's going on." Sherlock had pulled back from John reluctantly, his lips clinging until the last second. John's eyes were glazed over just a bit, and Sherlock smiled, despite all the pain of the last week. Sherlock stepped back from John, and addressed the remaining aides.

"I'll need my gear, I left it here last month." Sherlock's orders were sending aides scurrying like mice when a light was turned on; the bunker door opening and shutting, feet running, bodies bumping into each other. "Status updates on the perimeter of the clinic, alert local police to stay out of the area. I need the team leaders here ASAP."

John had never seen Sherlock like this. Orders were flying from him with the ease of long practice. His voice, while always commanding, now had an edge to it. Experience tempered the younger Holmes.

Sherlock didn't even react when Mycroft and Lestrade stumbled into the room. Sherlock cast a quick look over his brother, and the DI. Both were tired, haggard looking, and Mycroft was struggling to maintain his composure. Lestrade looked the better of the two, though Sherlock knew that wouldn't last long. Not once he was told about Molly. It was obvious that whichever aide had gone for them refrained from imparting the news of Molly Hooper's death.

"Sherlock, what's going on? They said you found Mary." Lestrade asked, as Mycroft sat nearby.

"Indeed. Mary is currently playing bait for Death's trap to capture John. I am going to use it to capture both of them instead. Perhaps even kill Death if I get the chance."

"Mycroft, John is staying here. I will not let him be captured by Death. She wants him; my demise is required only after she makes me suffer from watching John die first. You two are staying in here, as well."

"Am I?" Mycroft murmured, a shadow of his usual sarcasm attempting to come back to the surface.

"Yes, you are." Sherlock turned to two aides, who were carrying several large black duffel bags into the bunker. Sherlock motioned for them to drop them on the tables, and he tore into them. Guns, knives, electronic equipment, bullet proof vests, Sherlock flung them all out onto the tables.

John moved to Lestrade's side, his hand on the DI's elbow. Greg looked at him, his tired face lined by grief. He seemed to know already, from the pain in John's eyes. Greg closed his eyes, and bit his lip. There comes a point when it is impossible for the human body to suffer more pain, emotional and physical. Greg Lestrade was there. He merely stood there, broken, and let the pain of Molly's passing wash over him. She had been a friend for many years, longer than Sherlock. And her loss hurt just as badly as Donovan's.

John was at a loss. He felt useless, restricted by the actions of others. John knew that Sherlock was right. If he stepped out of this house, Death would attempt to capture him. And most likely succeed. Sherlock had shrugged out of his jacket, and was in the process of strapping on a bullet proof vest. It was black, like the rest of his gear, and as minimal as you could get without it being useless. John recognized it as a style meant for fast combat, so as not to restrict movement. He was struggling with getting it to fit, and John saw him flinch slightly as he moved his arms back. His ribs were still recovering from being broken the month before.

John went to Sherlock's side, and brushed his hands away. His detective looked at him in mild unease, not expecting help. John knew his way around this equipment; he was no stranger to combat. John concentrated on his hands, knowing if he looked away, he'd start weeping. Actions to focus himself, to stop the pain inside.

"Sherlock, let me." John knew better than to ask Sherlock to stay. Sherlock was the best suited of all of them to capture Death and Mary. He was more than a match for both. "Stop it, I'll fix it."

John adjusted the vest, tightening the straps, aligning the Velcro. "Weapons? I'm hoping you say yes, by the way."

"I'd ask for your gun, but I'd rather that stay with you." Sherlock murmured. John caught his eye, and saw a glimmer of something deep in his detective' eyes. Something that made John happy despite the horrible day. He felt weird for feeling it, as if he were committing a sin. Happiness shouldn't be felt along grief.

"Well, I know you; you'll want your hands clear. Nothing big, no shotgun. Handgun, that one there ought to do nicely." John grabbed the gun, checking to make sure it was loaded. He attached the holster around Sherlock's hip and thigh, letting the weight of the weapon rest on the leg, and not his lover's ribs. "You won't be leading the way in, will you? That vest makes it a bad idea if you are."

"Um, no. I'll be letting the security teams go first. Since my military advisor seems to think I shouldn't." John didn't even blink at Sherlock's comment, just kept adjusting Sherlock's gear. He strapped a knife to Sherlock's other thigh, the blade long and wicked.

Sherlock's hands were up away from his sides, letting John fix his gear, and he made no noise of complaint. His doctor's hands were quick, efficient, and moved with the ease of a man who knew his way around weapons. It served to remind him that no matter how many times people underestimated John Watson (himself included, ashamedly so), the man was more than a doctor; he was a soldier, too.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, as John made his final adjustments.

"Yeah?" John's voice was just as low.

"I should have taken you with me, after the Fall." John looked up at him. Their eyes met, held.

"Yes, you should have. But that's not important now."

John grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him firmly on the lips. "The team leaders are here, go plan your trap."

Sherlock raised a hand to his face, and brushed his thumb over John's cheek. "Yes sir, Captain Watson."

* * *

"Mary, Sherlock is en route to your position. He has two security teams with him. John Watson is not with him." Death's voice whispered in her ear, through the ear bud that was almost invisible to the naked eye. Mary didn't reply, just nodded slightly. She was next to the front window of the reception area, waiting on the doctor to see her. Death had people watching, across the street on the roof. So far, so good. Exactly as planned.

"Miss Morstan?" The nurse was at the door, and Mary stood up slowly. She avoided eye contact with the other people in the room, making sure not to draw attention to them. They were all waiting too, though not for the doctor. She had six men in the building already, six more waiting around the building, and six more outside of that, dispersed. She knew Sherlock would see the six outside the building, as they were being deliberately bad at being not obvious. He most likely saw the men within the building, the ones out in the reception area. Mary knew there was no way he saw the others, as they had been in place for hours. They would come in behind Sherlock's assault teams, and lock them in.

Mary smiled. She had Sherlock outnumbered. He had two teams, which meant twelve men. Eighteen men to his twelve. And she had her pocket aces. Mary struggled not to smile, as satisfaction swept through her. Death was a genius.

Mary followed behind the nurse, and as soon as the door to the reception room shut behind them, Mary roped her arm around the woman's neck. She dug in deep, the sleeper hold knocking her out within seconds. Mary dragged her to the end of the hall, and tied her up with the zip ties she pulled from her coat. She didn't even bother trying to hide the unconscious woman; Mary swept into the patient's rooms one by one, clearing them, and she left the doors open as she went down the hall. She reached the end, and kicked in the door. The doctor didn't even have time to be surprised before Mary took him out with her Taser, the voltage snapping loudly in the room.

Mary ejected the used cartridge, and tossed it at the doctor's quivering body. She grabbed his collar, and pulled him to the side. She kicked him in the head, insuring he stay down. Mary replaced the spent cartridge, and put the Taser back, inside her coat, under her arm. Her Beretta was still snugly in place, and she had no intention of using it, unless this whole op went sideways. Mary had another surprise in mind for Sherlock, which hung in wait along her back, under her coat. Death's present was heavy, but Mary didn't mind. Sherlock most definitely would though. Mary grinned, her bruised face stretching painfully. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Mary put a finger to the ear bud, and spoke. "Death, I'm in, civilians disabled. Waiting on Holmes in target location."

"Copy that, dear. Will advise when he arrives." Death replied.

Mary looked around the room, making sure she hadn't missed anything. This location had been scouted out days ago, and vetted before Death chose this as her ambush. She walked to the door, and she stumbled. Mary caught herself along the wall, and fought her stomach. Nausea overrode her insides, and she struggled not to be sick on the floor.

She breathed in through her nose, and out slowly through her mouth. Again. Her stomach subsided, and Mary was left dazed. She had thrown up on the sidewalk, and Mary had blessed her stomach bug for adding to her performance. But now she wondered. Wondered if she was really sick at all. Wondered if it was her heart trying to tell her that what she was doing was the wrong thing, or if something else entirely was at fault….

Mary's heart contracted, her heart rate jumping. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she realized with a thought as powerful as a lightning strike that she had been an idiot. _How blind can I be?_

Mary touched her ear bud, and asked for a status check on Sherlock's approach.

"He's ten minutes out. Standby."

Ten minutes. Mary spun around, and ran for the cabinets, slamming open the doors, and closing them just as quickly when she didn't see what she needed. She kept checking, her heart in her throat.

_A clinic this small won't send out for blood tests, they'll use the store kits first….. Where are they? Yes!_

Mary tore open the pregnancy kit, and locked the door. The test took five minutes. She would know in six if she would be working to kill John Watson, or save him. Sherlock living through this would depend on whether he came to kill her.

* * *

John watched the operation unfold on the screens, Lestrade beside him, Mycroft back in his chair next to the computers. Everything was quiet, as most of the aides had been dismissed by Mycroft. Only a few were left, the great room absorbed by the action on screen. Mycroft had most of his composure back, unless you looked him in the eyes, and you saw nothing but pain. Mycroft was pretending, acting like he was fine. Much the same with Lestrade. John had lost friends in combat, and his mind automatically compartmentalized the agony, and let him function. Never mind that his heart was broken, so badly damaged by the last few days he feared he might never heal from it.

The recon team had reported seeing nine men, plus Mary. A sniper on the roof across from the clinic, five men outside the clinic, and three on the inside. Mary was now out of the reception area, and presumably in with the doctor. There was no sign of Death anywhere.

Sherlock had looked disappointed, but then declared that capturing Mary would be the next best thing. She would lead them to Death soon enough. John had been alarmed, and part of him was afraid of what Sherlock meant.

"Death was the woman in the park, John. Mary helped Death evade the surveillance teams. Magnussen sells out Mary for information on Mycroft, and within days CAM Tower is blown up, and Magnussen presumed dead? John, Mary is involved, completely." Sherlock's voice flashed at John from his memory, before he had kissed his love goodbye, the bunker door sealing shut behind him.

"Sir, strike team is on site. They expect to breach in three minutes." The aide said, the same one who had been present through the last few days. He was listening to all the radio frequencies, and the video coming from the CCTV feeds, and the cameras mounted on the strike team's weapons. Sherlock had refused a video mounted weapon, opting instead for a radio uplink directly to the bunker, so John and the others could hear him, and not have it filtered through the rest of the chatter.

John watched the varying screens, his breath catching as he caught random shots of Sherlock among the strike team. His lover looked like a different person; his hair brushed back away from his eyes, the bullet proof vest and weapons nearly invisible in the blackness. His face had a focus to it that John had never seen before; this Sherlock was capable of killing. The only things that were the same were the flash of Sherlock's bright eyes, and the black coat he'd thrown over it all.

"Understood." Mycroft murmured, watching for glimpses of his brother.

"John….." Sherlock's voice whispered out over the sound system, loud in the bunker, but quiet where he was.

"I can hear you, Sherlock." John replied, hitting the radio button on his end.

"I won't kill her unless she forces me too."

John swallowed, fear and regret chasing his heart as it beat faster.

"Please be careful." It was all John could say.

* * *

"Mary, he's there. One minute. I'm a go. Starting my phase. I'll be waiting for word from you." Death whispered in her ear, startling Mary from her shock. Death's voice was gone as quickly as it had come; Death's part of the plan was in motion, and Mary had to hold up her end now. She had to go through with this, or everything was lost.

Mary shoved her reaction down, stuffing the test stick into her coat pocket. She threw the box in the sink on the counter, out of sight. She ran to the door, unlocking it, before heading back to the exam table in the rear of the room. She listened, as Sherlock's team breached the front doors of the clinic, disabling the men in the front room. He would be taking out the five around the outside of the building. Her hidden three were nearby, in the unseen attic space above the clinic, just over the reception area. They would wait on her signal. And she had her other hidden advantage, her 'pocket aces', planted by Death days ago. Mary grinned, knowing it would all be over soon.

Three down. Step one done. Mary's outer-lying ring of six would have started in at the same time Sherlock took out the sniper on the roof. And he wouldn't be breaching unless he had. She listened as his team swept into the hall, the calls they made as the found the knocked out nurse. Her door was the only one closed, and they knew she would be in here. Her six men should be outside any minute, all she had to do was stall Sherlock until they alerted her to their presence. And it wouldn't be subtle.

Mary pulled out her Taser, and put it on the exam table next to her. Her coat still covered her, and she felt behind her hip, to where Death's gift was, a shotgun hanging gently from her shoulders on a retractable sling. She pulled her hand away from the shotgun just as she heard the charmingly polite knock on the door.

* * *

John was captivated, nerves holding his attention to the screen. He saw Sherlock's men breach the clinic, both on the CCTV cameras, and the videos from the strike team cameras. Sherlock stayed near the back of the group, letting the teams take down the sniper, and the men outside the clinic. Mary's people folded instantly, only a handful needing to be put down. The rest were disarmed, and John watched the cameras for Sherlock.

"Her men are down. Approaching the last room, only place she can be." Sherlock's voice came clearly over the radio. John felt the insane urge to laugh when he heard Sherlock knock on the door.

* * *

Death stood in the center of the street outside Mycroft Holmes' townhouse, smirking at the Old World elegance of the entranceway. _What a shame I'm going to blow it up. Feel the flames, Mycroft Holmes._

"Gentlemen, if you would knock please." Death asked her six, and they flowed forward through the shadows, taking down the two guards out front. They had thought themselves well hidden, but her sharp eyes had caught them quickly.

The building was secured, from the inside. Sherlock had ordered the building cleared of unessential staff, and had a security team on site. Two were down. Four remained. And Death had her own advantage inside, much as Mary had hers.

Her men attached the block of C4 to the front door, and Death ducked around the van she and her team had arrived in.

"_Bring it down!" _She screamed, giving her rage an outlet at last. The explosion rocked the very earth under her feet.

* * *

John felt the tremors, even from an entire level away. The lights flickered, but stayed on, and dust fell from the ceiling. Alarms began to sound, ringing loudly in the stone room.

"What the hell?" John asked, and suddenly Mycroft was free from his stupor, and running to another set of computers. He activated the screens, and John watched as he brought up the security cameras surrounding his house. Only a few were working, most of the screens showing the snow of dead cameras. One inside the front foyer was working, and it showed flames, and a clear view out to the street. The doors were gone. Smoke filled the front of the house.

It was the fire out front that explained the tremor; it was if the fist of God had punched through the front door of Mycroft's home.

"She's here." Mycroft said, and pointed to the image. "Call for assistance, now."

Mycroft glared at the aide at the other station, who nodded fearfully and began to talk over his radio. Mycroft turned on the rest of the screens, and John saw different angles from within Mycroft's house.

"Shit. She's not alone." Lestrade was at Mycroft's side, and they all watched as the gorgeous form of Death walked through the flames, half a dozen shadowy figures following her through.

She lifted her shotgun to her shoulder, and fired twice, the weapon modified for automatic fire. Two figures hidden within the smoke and flames fell, unseen until her bullets dropped them to the ground. She hadn't even stopped walking, her stride unbroken.

"Christ." John said, and reached behind his back for his gun. He pulled it free, and clicked off the safety.

"She cannot get in here, Dr Watson. Relax. All we need to do is wait for backup. We can catch her as she tries to blow through that door. I doubt she brought enough explosives for that." Mycroft walked back to the other station, as John faced the security feeds that showed her progress through the house. The alarms went quiet, and John was thankful.

"I hope you're right, nothing is stopping her." John growled, his pulse jumping as she neatly shot another hidden guard, her single shot placed with frightening precision. She was over their heads now, seconds from turning the bend in the hall, and making the stairs to the bunker door.

This was too easy, even for her.

"This whole thing was a trap, all of it. Get ahold of Sherlock, now!" John shouted.

"What do you mean, you've lost the strike teams?" Mycroft was nearly yelling, and John looked over his shoulder.

"Sir, the explosion must have caused damage to the outer systems. Everything is fine in here, it's all the equipment outside this room that's the issue." The aide said, his face showing his fear.

"Did you get the call out for help?"

"Yes sir, I think so." The aide stammered.

John was watching the screens now, and he felt a strange mix of awe and sick fear as he watched Death disarm and kill the last guard. Her long silver knife flashed in the low lights of the hall outside the bunker, ending his life brutally. Her men hadn't even fired a shot. All they did was watch her back. Death had walked into the heart of Mycroft Holmes' house as if she owned it.

"It doesn't matter, she's here." John said, and he turned to the door, angling so he could watch the camera over the bunker door, and the door itself from his side. She looked up at the camera, and John watched as she blew a kiss right at him.

* * *

Mary smiled, and settled more comfortably against the exam table.

"Come in, Sherlock." She said, letting her voice sound as it once had, years ago, her British accent falling away.

The door slowly creaked open, and she met Sherlock's wary eyes. His face was hard, free of color. His hair was back from his face, and Mary smiled wider as she saw the vest under his coat, the weapons at his sides.

"That's a new look, Sherlock. Very Bond." Mary quipped, her American accent filling the room.

Sherlock slowly stepped in, eyeing her hand where it rested next to the Taser on the table. She kept her other hand down, away from her back. He wouldn't be able to see the shotgun as long as she didn't move towards it. He hadn't drawn a weapon, but the two men at his back had, their guns up, and aimed her heart. They stayed behind him, but had a clear line of fire.

"Hello, Mary. You've looked better." Sherlock's words were polite, but his voice was dark and ominous, threat radiating from him. "And it's nice to hear how you really sound. Lovely accent, from the Deep South of the States, yes? I'd love to chat, but I have a friend of yours I need to kill."

"Georgia, you have a good ear. And Death, you mean? Good luck, better men than you have tried." Mary smirked, and wiggled her fingers next to the Taser. Sherlock's eyes darted to her hand, then back to her eyes quickly.

"Not much you can do with that, Mary. I've got you at a disadvantage." Sherlock stepped in further, only a few feet between them now.

"Apparently you've had me at a disadvantage for months, Sherlock." Mary let slip her smile, her eyes glittering with anger. "Hard to compete with the great Sherlock Holmes, even when he's supposed to be fucking dead."

"Mary, tell me where Death is, now." Sherlock ignored her jab, and Mary growled low in her throat.

"Oh no, Sherlock. We're having it out right here and now, you back stabbing bastard." Mary nearly shouted at him, her voice cracking in rage and pain. "You fucking stole him from me! I saved him after you fucking broke him, left him in ruins!"

Sherlock didn't react, but for the slightest of twitches next to his eye. Mary saw it, and did her best to bring it out again. She hadn't heard the signal yet, and her heart was demanding she vent her agony.

"John was a hollow shell of a man, one I took months to repair! He didn't even live, he just existed!" She was crying, her tears stinging on her bruised and bloody cheek. "I found someone to love, after decades of nothing but death and blood, a good man whom I thought loved me back."

Sherlock winced, the movement tiny, but still there. She saw it, and her heart screamed at her to keep going. All of it then, let him hear it all. The words tumbled free, and her fingers inched closer to the Taser. His eyes saw it, but he did nothing, not worried about her weapon against the guns pointed at her heart.

"I spent decades killing for men who cared nothing for me. I had only loneliness and the stench of death following me through the years, the hollow sound of gunfire my lullaby. I had no youth, no life, no comfort of a loving touch, missing the embrace of a caring man's arms. And then I manage to survive my retirement, escape to this rainy island of a nation, and spend years living a peaceful life."

She let the tears fall freely, and she refused to drop her eyes from his. "And then a miracle happened. I fell in love with a man, someone just as damaged as me. And by healing him I saved myself. I saved what was left of my soul. I gave it all to John Watson, you bastard. I gave him the rest of my fractured heart, what remained of the woman I used to be. I gave him who I could have been, if not for the foolish choices of a blood-thirsty, damaged child."

She was sobbing around her words now, and Sherlock had lost the hardness from his expression, his eyes holding hers as much as she was holding his.

"And what hurts the most? The absolute most of all of this? Was that while I loved him more than anything- he never loved me back. He had only enough room in his heart for your ghost, and the affection he conjured for me." She spit out those words, her anger welling up. "You waltz back into John's life, _and without even trying, he was yours again._"

"And when he left, he took all the good I had given him, all the tiny parts of my soul- he took it all away when he left me for you." She was panting now, empty. Her rage was fading, leaving the cold hard reality of her situation screaming at her. She fought the urge to draw her Beretta, and a part of her was damning the knowledge of what the test had shown her. She was trapped, by her choices, and a rapidly disappearing future.

"Mary." Sherlock's voice was softer, deeper, the rough edge of anger smoothed out. "Mary, I'm…"

"Don't you dare fucking apologize to me." She interrupted him, and grabbed at the Taser. She didn't lift it, just let her hand wrap around the grip. Sherlock's eyes darted down to her hand, and then back to her eyes.

"Mary, don't. I don't want to kill you. This can all be over, just come with me willingly. Help me stop Death." Sherlock asked, slowly lifting one hand towards her.

"It's too late Sherlock." Mary heard the crackle in her ear, and Sherlock was close enough to see her react to something. His eyes widened, but it was too late. The floor beneath their feet shook, and a crashing came from the front of the building. Gunfire erupted outside the building and from the front rooms.

"_Now!" _She shouted, as Sherlock went for his weapon.

He was too slow; the two men Death had planted among Mycroft's security teams dropped their guns from her heart, and kicked at the back of Sherlock's knees. She whipped her free hand under her coat as Sherlock fell, lifting the shotgun. She fired once, straight for his chest, catching him over the heart as he fell to his knees.

* * *

"Are you certain she can't get in here?" John asked. He was watching Death, as she stared straight through the camera. "What the hell is she doing?"

"I don't know Dr Watson, she appears to be waiting for something." Mycroft said, standing at his shoulder, looking at the same image.

"Is she waiting for our help to get here?" Lestrade asked. John frowned, and looked at the gun in his hands, his grip firm and sure despite the racing of his heart. He didn't like this, being trapped by a madwoman, no matter how lovely she may be.

"Somehow I don't think they're coming." John said.

Death had her hand to her ear, as if listening to an ear bud radio. She was still, and then she started to laugh. Her face was maniacal, all sanity stripped away by whatever she had heard. She spun on the balls of her feet like a child dancing, her braid whipping behind her in her crazy joy.

She pulled a radio from her vest, and spoke into it. She put the radio away, and her other hand came up, touching something in the wall outside the bunker.

"Hello, John." Death's voice tore through the bunker, and her laughter echoed from the corners of the room. "Are you ready to go?"

"Oh Christ." John said, and she laughed, having heard him somehow. The audio systems had activated in the room, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"I'm coming in John." She said, and her voice was like cold fire, burning his ears.

"Seriously? You brought enough explosives to get through that door? Without destroying the house over your head?" John shouted, knowing he didn't need to, but feeling better all the same.

"I don't need explosives, dear. I was born with what I need." Death raised her hand, slowly. She placed her hand flat on the access panel, and waited. The line of light appeared, and scanned her palm. No one looked to see what name flashed on the computer screens as her ID processed, so shocked were they all.

"Oh shit." John breathed.

The lights flashed green, and the men in the room looked on in astonishment as the bunker's locks released. John lifted his gun, and moved towards the door. He was one man against seven armed killers, and he wasn't going down without a fight.

_Sherlock, I love you. I'm so sorry._

* * *

Her shot caught him over the heart, pushing him back over his knees, his back slamming into the floor. The two guards dived in, and ripped his gun and knife away. They pulled back, and Sherlock blinked past the agony to see Mary standing over him.

He couldn't breathe, his ribs were on fire, and pain radiated out from his chest. Mary stepped closer, the shotgun pointed at his heart. Her face was blank, the tears and pain gone. She let go of the shotgun, and it disappeared under her coat like magic.

He struggled for air, and saw spots floating in his eyes, the lack of oxygen pulling him under.

"Aaahhhh, there's the issue. Let me help you, Sherlock." Mary said, her voice low. She straddled his hips, and sat on him, ripping at the vest on his chest. She pulled at the Velcro, and as she did, he felt his lungs expand.

He pulled in air, and marveled at the fact he was still alive. His confusion and fear must have been obvious because she smiled. She reached past his face, and picked something off the floor. It was black, and about the size of a squash ball. It was soft, and moved weirdly as she flipped it in the air.

"Bean bag cartridge, designed to be fired from a shotgun. We call them riot guns back in the States, used by the police a lot. Non-lethal, but very nasty. Nifty toy, Death gave it to me." Mary smiled down at him, and she raised the Taser up in her other hand, and pressed it to his neck. Her eyes went to the men at the door. "Secure the rest of the building, make sure no one escaped."

They nodded, and melted away silently. Mary dropped her eyes back to Sherlock, and he was helpless, barely able to pull in enough air to stay awake, much less speak. She seemed to know, and dropped the bean bag. Her hand slipped under the vest, and rubbed up along his ribs. He jumped as she got to the impact point, and she chuckled.

"Broken ribs, several of them. Seems I was a little too close to be shooting you like this, but too late now. Sprained several muscles. Hard to move for a bit." Her hand dipped lower, towards his older injuries. "And some more! Poor Sherlock, looks like I broke you."

_This was a trap, but never for John. She came for me. Death has gone for John. JOHN! Molly's death wasn't meant to cripple me, it was meant to make me too angry to see what was going on. She blinded me with my rage._

Sherlock glared at her, anger and fear pushing past the pain. She saw, and dug in with the Taser.

"Behave, and listen to me. They're coming back now." She leaned over him, and put her lips to his ear. "I was tasked with disabling you, and keeping you from the townhouse. It's too late to stop her, but you can follow. Find Blackwood, Sherlock, and you'll find Death. The river, you'll always see the river." Sherlock heard footsteps in the hall, mere feet from the doorway. "Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can."

With that she lifted from him, just as the two men returned. She stepped back, and fired the Taser. The last thing he saw before he succumbed to the lack of air and the voltage was Mary's eyes. The pain was gone, and a new fire burned from within.

* * *

The bunker door opened slowly, every inch a torture of anticipation. Death was giddy, excited beyond measure. She would finally get to meet John face to face, not just sighted down the barrel of her rifle.

Her men were at her back, their weapons up. Death dropped her shotgun, letting the retractable harness pull it around to her back. She had her knife, and she flipped it in the air, spinning it as she caught it, tossing it back up. It was a habit from her teenage years, and she did it when she got really excited. Like now. She didn't even notice the blood droplets her spinning knife was sending out on the walls, the floor.

Death stepped in, and held up her hand to stop her men. John Watson had his gun out, pointed right between her eyes. She wasn't bothered; if she died now, her torment would be over, and she would be with James again. Just the thought settled her nerves, and she walked forward, unafraid.

Watson's eyes were locked on hers, and he tightened his grip as she neared. She saw no trace of fear in him. His stance and posture showed he knew how to use a weapon, and the steadiness of his gaze told her he had killed. She held his gaze, and let her mask slip. She saw herself in his reaction; his face grew pale, his eyes harder, and he looked quite eager to pull the trigger. Death could never see what others saw in her, the madness. Objectively, she knew she was insane, but for her, it was normal. James had been much the same.

She stopped a few feet from Watson. His gun was pointed at her head, and she could still see his eyes. She twirled the bloody knife in her hand, impressed when he ignored it, focusing only on her.

"Go ahead, John." She said, and lowered the knife. She slipped it slowly into its sheath on her thigh, and raised her hands, spread wide and shoulder height. "I miss him with every breath I take. Kill me."

His breathed in, surprise in his eyes. He didn't say anything. John kept his eyes on hers, and she saw him realize how much she truly didn't mind dying. It happened often, that realization, and it crippled many. Who wouldn't be terrified when confronted by someone who didn't fear death? Not bravery, but total, utter lack of fear. Death poured her willingness to take that bullet into her gaze, and John saw it all. Time slowed between them, and Death saw him struggle.

The men behind him moved forward, and one of them came close. Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade and one of the aides were within feet of her, and her men were still standing in the doorway of the bunker, yards away. The face of the police man was all rage, and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than for John to pull the trigger. Mycroft Holmes was silent, eyes darting between the doctor, her, and her men waiting patiently at the door. He was emotionless, unless you saw the tiny tremors in his fingers; he wanted her dead, too.

Death stood helpless before John Watson, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. John wanted to kill her, he truly did, but he couldn't kill her as she stood, begging him to die. She was weaponless, a woman in front of him, hands up in surrender. The torture, and great weakness, of the moral man.

She sighed, and fought to hold back her delight as her inside man got closer to the good doctor. The click of the gun in her man's hands was unexpected, to say the least. He had used her dramatic entrance well, and moved himself into position. The aide spun, aligning his stance with her, facing the men standing at John's back. He raised his gun to Mycroft Holmes' face, and Death reined in her delight as the other men in the room tensed in dismay. The aide that had been abused, bullied, and otherwise overwhelmed the last week disappeared, and in his place stood a man well bought and paid for.

"Shall I fire, my lady?" He asked, and Death watched as John Watson's eyes dragged from hers, and took in the sight of her man holding his lover's brother at gunpoint.

"That's up to John, really. Is he going to kill Mycroft, John?" She asked softly. She heard her men move into the room, and arrange themselves behind her. John looked back at her, still pointing the gun at her head.

"Damn you." He whispered, and John lowered the gun. She stepped forward those last few steps, and gently tugged it from his hands. She held the gun out behind her without looking, and one of her men took it from her hand.

Death slid her hand up John's arm, loving the way he shook, anger and disgust at her touch so very obvious on his face. She put her hand behind his head, and stepped into him, her body pressed tightly to his, no space for air between them. His shoulders were strong, and he was all muscles, surprising in a man of his height. She dipped her head, her lips brushing against his ear.

He stood still, hands made into fists, and she could feel how much he wanted to push her away. The guns trained on all of them held him in check. She waited, as he conquered the urge to strike at her, his body relaxing.

"Come with me, John. The game's over." She whispered, and kissed his cheek.

"Take them down, gentlemen." Death pulled back, and caught John's hand, and she twined his unresisting fingers with her own. "Come along, dear."

Death tugged, and John moved, slowly. She pulled at him like he was a man dreading going clothes shopping, and she his overeager date. She pulled, until John stumbled behind her, away from his friends.

Her six moved forward on silent feet, half of them holding their weapons on the government men, while zip ties were produced, hands restrained. Holmes, Lestrade, and the remaining aides were all restrained, hands behind their backs, and dropped to their knees. Her bought man had lowered his gun, still facing his master, whose stare promised the traitor a special place in hell. Her six backed away, weapons up, sights trained on the hearts of the men on the floor.

John was glaring at her, his mouth a thin line. She saw his hatred, his rage, and she was very impressed at his control. Fear swam in his dark eyes as well, and Death stirred at the sight, this man's fear, his control, intoxicating.

"Oh, John, don't be so upset. Only one person is dying in here today, and it's not your friends."

She didn't even drop his hand, just held it tighter as her other hand went for the shotgun strapped to her back. He saw what she intended, and tried to stop her. She flipped her grip on his hand, and applied pressure, twisting until he dropped to his knees in front of her, a scream strangled in his chest. Her other hand pulled the shotgun up, and she took aim. One shot, booming like thunder off the stone walls.

Screams erupted from her hostages as the traitorous aide's head was blown apart by her shot, his body standing for a split second before slowly crumpling to the floor. Blood went everywhere, mostly on the kneeling men. Death laughed at their faces, and she released the shotgun to slide into its place on her back.

"He was no longer useful. Hope he already spent his money, what a waste if he hadn't." Death said to the man at her feet, helpless in her grasp. She saw John Watson's determination to kill her in his eyes, and she smiled, wondering if he would indeed be the one to end it all for her.

"You are just like him." John choked out, gasping as she pushed down harder.

"Thank you, dear."

One of her men approached, and she nodded to him, releasing John. Her man grabbed the doctor's arm, and he was zipped tied like the rest.

"Take him outside, I'll be along shortly." Death blew kisses at the enraged doctor, as her men dragged him from the room, kicking and cursing her the entire way.

Death was alone in the large bunker with her hostages, but for a single guard who took up a position by the door, unwilling to leave her alone. She didn't mind, and turned to her hostages. They just glared at her, and she walked to them, pulling her knife as she did. Mycroft Holmes didn't even flinch, and she was glad his reputation wasn't exaggerated.

"We will stop you. You will die." Mycroft said to her, his voice calm, free of emotion. She ignored him, as if he hadn't even spoken.

"Hello, Mycroft. Have you wondered what has happened to Sherlock by now? You must have." She said, and gently and very carefully dragged the tip of the blade down the side of his face. Not enough to cut, but just enough for him to know she could, easily.

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly, but his expression didn't change. Death pulled her radio from her vest, and the double-clicked the talk button.

"Death, Holmes is down." Came Mary's voice, almost immediately. "Returning to base."

Mycroft's face went white, and he struggled to stand, a shout of denial bursting forth. She kicked him, hard, in the chest. He fell to the floor on his back, and she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Lestrade was attempting to charge her. She spun the knife, and the edge kissed the skin of Lestrade's neck. He froze, and she moved gently, driving him back to his knees. The skin split just a hair, and a tiny drop of blood welled up.

"Copy that, dear. Mission complete on my end. See you at home." She replied, returning the radio to her vest. Her guard had come up behind her, and he was waiting patiently.

"This is the knife I used on Sally, dear Gregory. Shall I use it on you?" She whispered to the man at her feet. She drank in his anger, and the pain her words caused. His already pale face, strained by grief and despair, drained of any remaining color, and she saw something in his eyes. As if he wanted her to. Like he wanted to die. She saw it, and saw in him the fruition of her plan.

Death began to laugh, hysterical, tears running from her eyes.

"You shall all live, all of you! But for Sherlock, of course!" She gasped out between shouts of laughter, her free hand wiping tears from her face. "You shall live with your pain, your grief, as I have lived with mine. Knowing there is nothing you can do, nothing to stop the pain and helplessness. That once the person you love is gone, your life has no meaning."

Death pulled back the blade, and struck Lestrade over the head with the hilt. He dropped, limp. Mycroft struggled to get up, eyes on the man crumpled at her feet.

Death took one last look around, and nodded to herself. Almost over, all of it.

Death turned and left, the trussed up men as forgotten as the corpse bleeding out across the floor.

* * *

_John. Wake up! John!_

Sherlock couldn't breathe right. He woke up, choking, each spasm of his chest making his ribs stab at him like daggers.

His whole body was tingling, muscles vibrating like he was stuck in one of the wretched massaging beds found in cheap lodgings across the globe. He tried lifting a hand, an arm, anything, but the lack of air left him weak.

Mary had discharged the Taser's cartridge, leaving it and the long wires draped over him, the barbs still stuck in his chest.

_I have to roll on my side. I can breathe better if I roll over. Move! I have to get to John!_

Sherlock pushed as hard as he could with one arm, digging at the floor with a leg. It took him a minute, body shaking, ribs screaming in protest, but he managed to roll over. It hurt, but he felt his lungs open further, the pressure changed, letting his body get more oxygen. He fought for more air, his body recovering with each lungful.

He heard nothing from the rest of the building, but the scent of smoke, of freshly burning wood, was strong in the air. He look to the door, and saw no one. Sherlock went for his earpiece, pushing on it.

"John? Can you hear me? John!" Sherlock called, desperately needing to hear his doctor's voice. Hi voice was weak, and Sherlock coughed, so hard he almost blacked out from the pain. His vision came back, slowly, and he saw the blood on the floor. Tasted it on his tongue. He had blood in his lungs.

_Punctured lung… ribs…..John….. I'm sorry….._

Sherlock passed out, blood dripping from his lips.

* * *

John couldn't see past the black cloth over his head, and his arms were straining under the tight grip of the zip ties, and the men who dragged him from the vehicle. The drive to wherever they were going was long, just over an hour. The familiar smell of the river was heavy in the air, but the scent was different, like it got when you were closer to the sea than the city, the wind racing across the ground.

John was dragged into a building, the sound of the wind dying down, the cold air fading away. Wherever he was sounded big, echoes and distant sounds bouncing around. He found himself pushed on a stool, and the cloth was suddenly ripped away.

John blinked against the light, his eyes watering. His eyes focused on the two women standing in front of him. His heart quaked at the sight of Mary, her beautiful face beaten and bruised. She stood tall regardless, arms folded across her stomach. She avoided his eyes, instead looking down at the floor.

"Mary, how could you." John gasped out. "What did you do to Sherlock?"

"He's alive, for now." She said, and she finally looked him in the eye. John expected to see anger, hurt, anything to explain her actions. He saw nothing, as if she hid from him, even standing so near. Her blue eyes were crystalline bright, and he felt something stir in him at her gaze. He thought he knew her well, this woman he had loved, but the stranger in front of him was unreadable.

"He's alive for now? What the hell does that mean? _What did you do to him?!" _John shouted, trying to stand up, only to have a hand clamp down on his shoulder, holding him on the stool. "I break it off with you, because I thought it was the right thing to do, and you decide to hook up with Moriarty's ex-girlfriend and burn down London? _You get dumped and go insane?!"_

John didn't care that he was shouting, he didn't care that the woman standing beside Mary was getting enraged, her hand clenching into a fist. John didn't care. All he cared about was Sherlock, and that the woman he had loved, trusted, and tried to do right by had been nothing but one terrible, vicious lie.

"I loved you! I'm sorry I couldn't love you enough to stay, I couldn't do it! I refused to live a lie! But you, you were ready to lie to me forever! And this madwoman meets you up for a chat and you throw in with her for revenge?" John was shouting now, loudly. Everything he'd tried to let go of came out, and it didn't help any that Mary just stood there and took it. He would have been better off if she had gotten mad back at him, if she had responded in any way. But she didn't, just stood there, her eyes on his, her arms across her stomach, as he vented his hurt into the ballroom. Her refusal to respond just made it so much worse. "I was going to talk Sherlock out of killing you, I really was. I was willing to help you right up to the very end of this. I tried not to care, but seeing you broken and bleeding on the street was too much. I should have realized, I should have seen, that you are nothing but a lie, not worth trying to save!"

The blow caught him unprepared. Death's fist stuck him, hard, and he feel to his knees on the floor. His vision swam, face throbbing. He didn't care, he looked past the madwoman standing over him, her hand raised to strike again. He looked at Mary, who hadn't even reacted to Death striking him.

"_She killed Molly, you bitch! Molly!" _John roared, his anguish and anger finally striking a nerve. Mary flinched, but she lowered her arms. Her chin came up, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did I, John? Is that it? I murdered Molly! She let me kill Sally, and Anthea too. Right where you're at, isn't that right?" Death snarled at him, dropping her fist. Death reached down, and Mary was at his other side, and between them, they pulled him to his feet, ignoring the curses he tossed at them.

They turned him, and the women marched him from the ballroom. There were guards in the hall, all armed, and they parted as Death and Mary walked him down the hall, and around a corner. Up a flight of steps, dragging him as he stumbled. They ignored him as he demanded to know where they were taking him, what the hell they were doing. He noticed in the part of his brain that wasn't overcome by grief and betrayal that they were in the private areas of the large house.

They forced him to the end of the hall, to a door where two guards stood outside.

"Open it." Death ordered, and the guards obeyed. As soon as it was open, Death forced him through, spilling him onto the floor on his knees. "Behold, John Watson! Mary's price for her assistance in my endeavors!"

He was breathing hard, not caring what was in the room; whatever it was the price had been too high. He didn't care, didn't look up, right until he heard her voice. A voice he never thought to hear again.

"John?"

_Impossible, no, it's a trick. No…_ John lifted his head, and saw the impossible. A miracle. She jumped from the bed where she had been sitting beside two other women, and raced across the floor, her arms wide.

Molly Hooper hugged him tightly, her arms real and strong. She buried her head in his neck, sobbing out his name. Her hair brushed across his face, the scent as real as the light from the lamps, the pain in his bound hands. She was no ghost. Neither were the two women still on the bed, staring at him in as much shock as he was staring at them.

"Molly?" John whispered in disbelief, as she sobbed harder at the sound of her name. John let her cry against him, as someone cut his hands free. He didn't fight, all he did was raise his hands, and frame her face. "Molly!"

Tears of his own came flowing free. Fast and unchecked, but he didn't care. He pulled the very much alive Molly back to his chest, and gazed in wonder at Anthea. Donovan sat behind her, and John cried harder as she managed a tiny smile for him.

The door shut quietly behind him, but he didn't notice. He only had eyes for the three miracles in the room with him, as he hugged Molly tighter.


	30. Madness Runs in the Family

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. **

**Hopefully this chapter helps reward everyone's patience. Enjoy, my dears!**

**Warning: Vague hints of child abuse. Lots of swearing near the middle.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty**

"_**Madness Runs in the Family"**_

John wiped a thumb over Molly's cheek, still amazed she was real. Her tears had stopped, and she was hiccupping from her weeping. John smiled at her, and that wretched ache he had felt for days eased. It was if he could breathe again, the air sweet and cool, the first cold day of autumn after a long hot summer.

"How?" It was all he could ask, all he needed to ask. John keep his hand to her face, and looked past Molly to the women sitting on the bed. Anthea smiled at him, her face still pale, but the inner strength he had witnessed in her video was there. Donovan was leaning back against the headboard, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, but she looked him in the eye, unafraid.

"Mary….. She made Death promise not to kill us, and she would help." Molly said, hiccupping one more time, her cheeks getting red. "I heard her talking to Death the other morning, before Anthea was filmed. I didn't understand what she meant, until I woke up after mine, in here."

"I've been here for forever, wondering if everyone was dead, and I was in Hell." Donovan grumbled quietly. "And my head hurts like I am, by the way."

It was her mention of pain that snapped John back from his disbelief and joy. He stood, helping Molly to her feet. John looked closer at the girls, and saw what he missed in his shock at seeing them alive.

"Dear God, what did she do to you?" John saw the bruises, the scrapes, the blood that had soaked through the makeshift bandage wrapped around Anthea's arm and hand. They were all still dressed in those short grey shifts, legs and arms bare. John felt anger build up in him, indignation at their treatment. Make them think they're going to die, and that they're making the men who love them watch them die….. Cruelty. Purest form.

"Who's worse off?" John asked, as he sat on the bed, Anthea pulling her legs back so he'd have room. He banished the anger, needing to be calm for the girls. Fastest way to get a patient upset is if the doctor is upset.

"Anthea." Donovan said, not hesitating.

"Sally, please. You have a severe concussion, and a very nasty cut on the back of your head." Anthea tried to divert attention from her hand, but John was having none of it. She was holding her arm tightly to her chest, as she had in her video.

"Yeah, but I stopped bleeding awhile back, you bleed every time you move. And she hit you in the head too, remember?" Donovan said, and John found himself glad to hear that snarky edge to her voice, the one he usually found so annoying.

"Anthea, let me see." John said, his hands out, inches from her arm. "Please let me help."

She met his eyes, and John saw something deep in their green depths that he hadn't expected. She was nervous. Almost afraid. As if she was afraid to look. Looking makes it real. John was patient, and just waited. Molly scooted up on the bed behind her, and rubbed Anthea's shoulder lightly.

"We used the towels from the bathroom, wrapped it up best we could, but we can't make it stop bleeding." Molly said, her eyes on Anthea's arm, as the MI6 agent relaxed centimeter by centimeter, and John slipped his strong fingers underneath. She shook, her muscles cramped from holding that position for so long, and John soothed as best he could.

He took her measure as he slowly unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth from her wrist. Anthea was unbelievably strong, composed. She had held her fear in check, and managed to keep it together this long by sheer nerve. Her pain and her injury were wearing her down, and John saw it in her eyes. She was afraid to relax, to let someone take care of her, else she might break.

John felt his heart sink as the cloth fell away. He pulled gently at the places the cloth had stuck to flesh, and they began to bleed again. This was bad.

"Molly, do you have more towels?" He asked softly, not lifting his eyes from the ruin of Anthea's hand.

"Yeah, we have a bathroom, one second." Molly hopped off the bed, and disappeared from view.

John looked for a moment more, and knew Anthea needed more help than he could offer. She needed surgery. And soon. Three of her fingers were broken, and she had several pieces of wood imbedded like daggers in her hand and wrist. He would hazard a guess that she had more broken bones deep in her hand that he couldn't see. And she was injured days ago. Infection was the biggest danger now.

If this was Death's version of mercy, he dreaded knowing what her idea of being ruthless was. Though in a way he did know; she had convinced them all, even Sherlock, that the women they loved most had been callously murdered.

"How did this happen?" John asked, anger making his voice deeper. This woman deserved better treatment than this. They all did. "You said in your video you tried to escape?"

"Anthea was incredible! Convinced us all she was dying or something, took out a guard three times her size, disarmed him, and managed to get us out of that cage and to the ballroom door." Donovan said, as Molly rushed back in from the bedroom's small bathroom, arms full of towels. "Then that bitch showed out from nowhere, shot the gun from Anthea's hand, shot her own man in the head…." John saw Molly shudder at that mention, "and we got jumped by her goon squad."

"It wasn't enough." Anthea murmured, refusing to look down as John rewrapped her arm with clean towels. "I just made it worse."

"Stop it." John said, refusing to let this woman take any blame for the situation they were all in. She had nearly saved them all. His first impression of her as a mere cypher of Mycroft's shadowy agency was grossly inadequate. "We all know who's at fault here, and none of you deserved this."

John tied off the towel, having ripped the ends to make it easier to secure. He needed actual medical supplies to help her. Something more than fluffy white towels.

"Let me see your head." He ordered, kneeling up on the bed, not wanting her to move any more than she had to. His fingers feathered through her hair, and John found himself smiling despite the circumstances. Even tired, bloody and hurt, Anthea was a beautiful woman, and her hair smelled and felt fantastic. He chided himself on even noticing, a small part of him amused because he noticed how lovely she was._ Interesting._

He felt a lump on her head, just behind her temple. Any closer, and the blow that Death had dealt would have killed her for real. Anthea flinched as his fingers gently probed, but the skin wasn't broken. Her eyes were dilating normally, and she didn't seem to have trouble speaking. No concussion, or at least not too severe. Her nose-bleed must have happened when she hit the floor, as an impact like that was enough to start one.

"Your head looks fine. Anything else?" John sat back, keeping a hand on her shoulder as she swayed. "You need to lie down."

"No, I'm okay….Starts bleeding every time I move…." She started to say, but John cut her off, and made her scoot back on the bed, sitting up against the headboard beside Donovan.

"Who's next?" John said, but he eyed Donovan as he said it. She grimaced slightly, but she didn't argue as he came around to her side. She was pale, like the others, but on her it was alarming. Her naturally darker skin looked almost hallow in its pallor, and she hadn't moved an inch since his unexpected arrival. He stood beside the head of the bed, and followed her hand as she lifted it to the back of her head. John hissed in a breath at the long cut he found, running from the base of her skull, and a few inches down her neck. There was a lump on her head as well, larger than Anthea's. It was above the top of the cut, as if Death had hit her with the hilt of the knife, and turned the blade as she continued the stroke, slicing just deep enough to coat the edge in blood. All without skipping a beat, or making it clear what she had done.

John held his breath, his chest tightening at the frightening display of control and skill displayed by Donovan's injury. Death had done so well, she had convinced a consulting detective, a spymaster, a doctor, and a police officer that she really had killed Sally Donovan.

"You need stitches, or you did. It's been too long now for them to help, it's started to heal. I'm worried about infection now." John moved to look at her eyes, and saw that Anthea was right. Donovan had a concussion, her eyes were off just a bit, and not reacting normally to the light level in the room. He was worried, but she seemed to be aware of where she was, and she was following the conversation easily enough.

John helped her lean back, and he grabbed a small pillow from the bed, putting it between her head and the hard wood of the headboard.

"Molly, let me see." John turned to the pathologist, who had sat quietly while he examined the other two women.

Molly was sitting at the end of the bed, and John felt his heart melt at the tears running down her cheeks. She wasn't crying hard, just tiny tears escaping from her eyes, and she didn't bother wiping them away. John sat next to her, and pulled her unresisting body to his shoulder. He could see the bruising from a blow to the head next to her temple, but he saw nothing else. She was remarkably unharmed physically, but he could see that the entire ordeal of the last few days had left scars on Molly Hooper. She didn't say a word, just soaked his neck in her tears.

John held her, and mentally cursed the woman who had caused all this pain. Death was indeed worthy of being the last disciple of Jim Moriarty. She was just as evil, and her madness was the same breed as her master's.

* * *

Smoke. Heat from flames, so near. The air was burning. Sherlock was burning.

His eyes cracked open, a bare sliver. Light, orange and bright, danced in front of his eyes. Sherlock saw in the haze his fingers outstretched before him on the floor, mere inches from a line of fire. He tried to move them, but his body wasn't aware of his mind; he felt the heat, the pain caused by the flames, but his fingers couldn't move.

Sherlock blinked, and forced his eyes wider. He had awakened twice before this, at the very least. Each time, he had managed to drag himself from where he lay, past bodies bleed dry by bullets, destroyed by flames. Something had exploded out on the street, and whatever it was had ripped through the front of the clinic. Sherlock could barely breathe, his body bruised and broken, but he refused to stop. He could hear past the flames sirens in the distance, the authorities responding despite the MI6 injunction to stay away. That meant he had been under for a long while, trying to drag himself out of the building. Drag himself out, to get to John. His doctor was in danger, and he let it happen.

It was that thought of John that made his hand move, his fingers curl into the burning carpet. He pulled in as deep a breath as his fractured ribs would allow, and pulled. Pulled until he screamed, blood running from his mouth, a rib stabbing his lung. Sherlock pulled until he moved. Just a few inches, but enough to get him closer to the door, closer to John. Away from the flames trying to consume him.

He rested, face in the blood dripping from his lips, shallow gulps of air chasing back the darkness. Sherlock reached again, feeling the faint brush of cold night air from the door. He was so close, so very close. He refused to die in here, refused to let John suffer for his failure. Mary had said it was too late to stop Death, but not too late to follow. And Sherlock would follow Death. To Hell if need be. He already felt the flames.

"Sherlock!" He barely registered the sound, so loud were the roar of the flames. He ignored it, and reached up again, grabbing at the floor, and pulled. The pain rode over his mind, flooding his eyes with black spots, red ribbons of light. He pushed it back at the pain, breathed again, and pulled as hard as he could.

The brush of cold air on his hand was his reward, but it came too late. Sherlock heard the creaking, the rumble above him, as the roof was devoured by the fires. He knew it was too late, it would fall on him any moment.

Sherlock was falling, the heat and flames withdrawing from his awareness. He fought to stay awake. It was so hard; his body had failed him. Sherlock was failing John.

_Forgive me, John. I failed you. I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I dropped my guard. Became weak. …. But I will never regret you. Loving you is all I can feel now. I'm dying, and all I can feel is how much I love you._

"Sherlock!" It came again, that sound. Too late for him to realize what it was, as the darkness came back for him, pulling him under. He didn't feel the hands grab him under the arms, lifting and dragging him from the floor. All he could feel was that small flame burning in his soul, the flame that hissed John's name in the shadows.

* * *

The voices were quiet, but he could hear them. They were formless, nothing to tell him who was speaking. The darkness held him under, just under the waking point. Shadowy fog floated around him, wispy and beguiling.

The air was cooler, the absence of flames a welcome respite. A breeze fluttered over his face, cooling him, and he no longer struggled for air. Oxygen was being pushed into him, the mask over in his face annoying, but providing relief.

Sherlock struggled to cast off the darkness, the sluggish pull of the narcotics someone had given him. That fog was back, pulling at his mind, beguiling him, whispering at him to sleep. The shadows swam around him, singing to him of peaceful oblivion. He fought it off; he reached for that light he knew was there. It was always there. John. His John.

"How bad is it?" Said one of the shadows, concern heavy in the voice. Sherlock had heard this shadow speak before, somewhere. He knew it. Somehow.

"Lacerated lung, five broken ribs, several muscles in his chest are sprained. Smoke inhalation, not too severe. He has some minor burns, mostly around his hands. Those should heal up just fine. It's the ribs that have me worried." Another shadow was speaking, one that Sherlock had never heard before. Exasperation and fatigue so clear.

"What do you mean? Explain." The familiar voice was impatient, worry driving his words.

"There's evidence of earlier breaks, that weren't given time to heal properly. Whatever happened to him tonight caused them to break again, and one of them cut a lung. If he doesn't let himself heal this time around, his lung could collapse completely. That's a serious stay in hospital, and most likely surgery. No activity of any kind. He has to stay in bed and recover."

"He may not be able to, once he learns what's happened tonight. He will not be cooperative, Doctor." Said that familiar shadow voice. Sherlock knew it. The name was floating past him, the fog obscuring who this was.

"He's out of it for now. I don't expect him to wake up for another twelve to twenty-four hours. I'd suggest that whatever it is, if you can get away with it, don't tell him."

"Once he wakes up, Doctor, he's going to see it, know the truth. I've never been able to hide everything from him, even as a child. I'd like you to keep him under, as long as you can. He'll heal if we force him too."

"You want me to keep him sedated? Will it be that bad, once he learns whatever it is you don't want him to know?"

"It will be worse. Keep my brother sedated." Mycroft. His brother. _What doesn't he want me to know?_

"He's had a very large dose already. I'll see about giving him some more when it's safe to do so. I can keep him out for a few days without adverse effects."

"Do it. I'll be back tomorrow." The voice he had named Mycroft left, the sound of his shoes loud on the tiled floors.

Another set of footprints followed, and silence fell in his room. Sherlock was aware of the sound of a fan whirring overhead, the beeps of machines nearby, the sting of an IV in his arm. Hospital. He was in a hospital.

_Why? What happened? Why isn't John treating me? He's my doctor. I changed all that paperwork years ago. Never told him… never came up. Never told him I left him in control of my fate. Mycroft shouldn't be here, telling the doctor what to do. Where's John?_

_John. Why aren't you here? I remember fire. Flames. Crawling away from the fire…. Mary. She was there. Why was Mary in a fire? No…. no…focus….._

Sherlock grew angry, as the fog tried to pull him under. There was something very important, so very vital, that he knew was just out of reach. He couldn't settle his mind, the drugs overwhelming him. He fought back, striking at the fog. It withdrew, but barely. Sherlock pulled in a deep breath, the oxygen helping. Pain burned in his chest, his side. Whatever they had sedated him with was keeping it at bay, at the edge of his reality. Another deep breath. Clarity. Sherlock pried open his eyes, and was thankful the lights were low. His eyes burned, and tears came in response.

There was a noise at the door to his room. Sherlock closed his eyes, and waited. Someone was breathing, being very quiet as they came in the room. He followed the sound of their footsteps, feather light on the floor. A scent that reminded him of gun-metal oil, fire, and the Thames crept over him, faint through the mask. Close now, very close to him.

"I know you're awake, Sherlock." Her voice. _I know that voice. _"Well, perhaps not awake, but close enough. Shall I help you out, dear?"

There was a beeping noise, and the fog retreated. The shadows thinned out, and Sherlock blinked his eyes open. A figure was standing over him, slim and wraith-like in the dim lights of the room.

"Ah, there you are. Mary said you were alive, but when I heard you were hospitalized, I was so worried." Death whispered to him, her hand drifting across his brow, smoothing back the curls. "She gets so enthusiastic sometimes, sorry about that. But then you did piss her off something fierce, dear."

It all came crashing back, every last second. The dark eyes above him glittered in unholy glee as she saw the memories return to him, and the rage that accompanied it. There was a beeping in the room, faster in response to his heart. Sherlock struggled to move, his arms still heavy from the morphine. She was here, staring down at him, a sweet smile on her beautiful face, eyes burning to match the fire raging in his heart.

"Shhh, easy Sherlock. Don't hurt yourself. We wouldn't want anyone to see me in here, might get messy." Death whispered, leaning over him. "You better get well soon, I won't have anything to occupy my time if you don't. Well, other than the delectable Dr Watson, that is."

Sherlock growled and managed to lift a hand, trying to push her away, grab her, anything. She caught his hand in her own, and clasped it tightly. She was strong, so strong. Sherlock meet her eyes, and he saw in her the ghost of a man long dead. Her eyes, she had his eyes.

"I have John, Sherlock. He belongs to me. I have your heart, that which you love most. I will burn your heart, set it ablaze, and destroy your future. Destroy your life. I will burn away my past, free my demons, and join James." Death leaned over him, her eyes all he could see. "Get well soon, Sherlock. It'll be a better way to die if we're all together. No phone call to change a mind, no backup plan to cushion your Fall. There won't be on a rooftop, it won't be as easy as a step off a ledge."

Death tugged the mask away from his face, still holding tight to his hand. Her free hand rose, and cupped his cheek. He didn't try to avoid it; this was inevitable. She kissed him, and her lips were soft, tasting like Irish whiskey and peppermint gum. She kissed him as if he were her true love, every heartbeat she had to offer his. She didn't hold back, and Sherlock didn't fight her. The scent of water, like the sea and the Thames, rose from her coat, her hair. It wasn't unpleasant, and Sherlock filed it away as her lips moved gently over his.

She pulled back, her lips clinging to his for a second longer. She brushed away his wandering curls one more time, before she reached out and increased his morphine drip. She gently put his oxygen mask back, making sure it was snug. She laid his hand on the bed, and pulled the blankets up a little higher, careful not to jar his side.

"I must go dearest. Your brother is sending someone to watch over you, he'll be here any minute. Big brothers can be so sweet, can't they? They do what they think is best for us, even when it hurts."

She was fading into the fog, her eyes the last part of her he could see. The morphine whispered at him, and Sherlock let the shadows sweep him away.

_John, I'm coming for you. Stay alive. I know who she is. I know who she is….._

* * *

Philip Anderson stood hesitantly in the doorway to Sherlock's hospital room, watching as the consulting detective slept. He must be deeply asleep, as he hadn't noticed the very beautiful brunette who had wandered into his room by mistake. She had smiled at him, and Philip had been distracted by it, as it was shy and sweet. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a fancy braid, and it swung with every step she took. Her clothes had implied wealth and style, and Philip had enough brain cells left to hurry out of her way as she walked by him.

Philip stepped over the threshold, and when Sherlock didn't react, he figured it was safe to step in all the way. He moved to the detective's bedside, and looked down. Sherlock's chest was heavily bruised, the impact point high up on the left side of his chest, and spreading down his side. Philip felt a jolt of concern at the level the morphine was set at. Surely it shouldn't be so high. But then Sherlock would have a tolerance to it, considering how many times he had used it before. Not all of those times when he was hurt, either.

Philip pulled out his mobile, and stared at the text message he had received from Mycroft Holmes.

**You may begin to make amends at St Bart's Hospital, Room 207. He doesn't leave. –MH**

Philip sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, propped his feet up on the dropped metal railing, and did his best to watch Sherlock sleep without falling asleep himself.

* * *

Lestrade kept the icepack to the lump on his head, wincing as a thin trickle of cold water ran down the back of his neck. He was sitting on the bench across the street from Mycroft's house, as the fire crews and police worked the scene. Dawn had yet to arrive, but everyone was anyone was here, from several ministry officials of some kind, to some of his own superiors. Mycroft had left, going to the hospital where Sherlock had been taken. Lestrade would've gone, but he had managed to get caught by one of his superiors, and received a tongue lashing from Hell when he refused to tell them what had happened. The only thing he felt comfortable saying was that something had blown up and he'd hit his head. Wasn't technically a lie, but then the truth was so much worse. He had escaped only when the paramedics had cornered him, and that had been almost as bad.

"Are you alright, Greg?" Mycroft asked, making Lestrade jump, pain jolting in his skull at the sudden movement. He looked up, squinting at the MI6 man.

"Thought you went to the hospital? How's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, moving over a bit as the taller man sat next to him. Mycroft peered at his head, mouth pinching tight when he saw the lump, and the thin trickle of blood running out of his hair.

"He's severely injured. Miss Morstan nearly killed him." Mycroft murmured, and he sighed in exasperation as the DI let the icepack slip from his head.

"Tired of holding this thing on, I'm soaking wet and I hurt if I take it off." Greg grumbled, resting on the seat back. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"He'll be fine if he stays in bed and rests. Though I haven't much hope of that once he learns that John was taken." Mycroft reached out, and very subtly took the icepack from Lestrade. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it up, and without even blinking, held it to the injury himself.

Lestrade eyed him in disbelief, but said nothing about it. Like Mycroft took care of him all the time. Totally natural. Never mind the last two days spent in each other's arms. Just holding each other, mind. Nothing else. Just some decent snuggling. Having someone to hold helped in dealing with the pain. "Someone keeping an eye on him?"

No one was watching them, and Lestrade scooted closer to the MI6 man. The shadows were deep here, and they were far enough away from the chaos that people weren't likely to wander over. Mycroft adjusted his grip, his forearm resting on Lestrade's shoulder as his hand held the pack to the bump. The handkerchief was absorbing the water, and it was helping with the pain.

"I've got a man on it. Someone motivated not to screw it up." Mycroft said, his thumb rubbing through Greg's silver hair.

"Well, alright. Don't know what we're gonna do when Sherlock figures it out. Man'll go mad for sure." Greg said, worry in his voice. Death had John. She'd waltzed into Mycroft's home, made a man betray his country, kidnapped John, killed her inside man, and then as a parting gift, knocked him out just for fun. Then there were their friends, the women slain so pointlessly. Slain just to make them hurt. Lestrade had never really hated anyone before, so this was a new experience.

"Is there any point in me asking if we know where she went?" Lestrade said, angling his body on the bench, so he was facing Mycroft. The other man kept the icepack to his head, his thumb soothing as it idly twirled in Lestrade's hair. Greg felt the anger, the pain, and the misery of helplessness drift away, this man's touch distracting.

"None whatsoever. She's gone. And I'll be explaining why to my own superiors here soon, I expect." Mycroft groused, eyeing the chaotic scene in front of his house with displeasure. Acting like he wasn't playing with Greg's very soft, thick, beautiful fox-grey hair.

"You have superiors?" Greg scoffed, smiling a little. Hard to believe Mycroft Holmes answered to anyone.

"Only two, actually. Everyone else is an annoyance to be handled." Mycroft said, and Greg caught a glimpse of a smile on the MI6 man's face out of the corner of his eye. Greg found himself wondering who those two were, but he dropped that line of thought. Better not to know that answer.

Greg avoided making eye contact, afraid to draw attention to the fact that every muscle in his body was very aware of Mycroft. Every nerve alive, tingling. Mycroft's hand holding the icepack; the thumb in his hair, just behind his ear; the scent of Mycroft's cologne, which he knew so well now. He felt it all, warm water washing over him, filling places long left cold. The air even felt different. Newer. Never mind the smell of burnt wood and car exhaust, the air tasted new. As if he had never breathed before.

Greg cursed himself for being a coward. He wouldn't call himself brave, but he knew he was never this fearful. He took a deep breath, and turned his eyes to Mycroft's.

He looked in the eyes of the man who had held him as he wept for Donovan. He looked into the eyes of the man who had mourned Anthea. They had held each other, not questioning the comfort they had garnered from the other man's embrace. He hadn't questioned it. It had felt so very right.

Mycroft met his eyes directly. The MI6 man had been waiting patiently for Greg to look at him. Mycroft's eyes were intent, watching the play of emotions across the DI's face. Greg didn't know what he saw in the taller man's eyes, but it made his insides tumble, like he had tripped while walking on a smooth surface. Greg felt lost, but not to those eyes. He was lost to the world, and he never wanted to be found.

The icepack disappeared, and Mycroft's hand was buried in his hair, long fingers framing his head, holding him. Greg's heart began to race, eyes burning from not blinking. He refused to look away, he couldn't look away. They were closer to each other, less than a foot between them, neither of them aware that they had moved.

The shadows were still deep here, where they sat on the bench. No one could see them, and Greg wouldn't have cared if they could. His hand rose on its own, and his fingers shook as he came within a hair's breadth of touching Mycroft's cheek. Greg swallowed nervously, and let his fingertips touch skin. He felt like he had touched a live wire, pinpricks of painful sensitivity racing through his fingers, his hand, through his arm and straight to his heart. It jumped, and beat faster.

Mycroft saw all this in Greg's eyes, and marveled at it. This was so unexpected, so different. This pull was magnetic, he couldn't stop himself, couldn't think of a reason why he should stop. Mycroft tipped his head down, Greg moving to meet him. Greg felt Mycroft's breath on his face, and his eyes drifted shut. Slowly, as if dreaming, their lips touched, feather-light. A spark was lit, and Greg trembled.

_What is this…..Dear God! Don't stop…_

Mycroft tensed up, but didn't pull away. Greg was past thinking, and let both his hands frame the other man's face. He pressed just the slightest bit more, and kissed Mycroft as gently as he could. Mycroft let him, his breath coming faster, and Greg felt shivers run through his frame.

"Mycroft Holmes!" Came a voice, impatient. Clearly feminine, and older. Demanding.

They jumped apart, both of them gasping for air, shock and fear and passion crashing between them on the bench. Greg met Mycroft's eyes for split second, before his face got red, and he pulled away.

An older woman with gold blonde hair stood on the sidewalk in front of the ruin of Mycroft's house, looking in their direction. Greg blessed the shadows, as it hid his red face, and Mycroft coughed into his hand. Mycroft tossed him a look, unreadable, before standing up. He straightened his suit, and handed Greg the icepack. He took it absently, mind still chaotic from what had just happened. Mycroft looked at him a moment longer, then turned, walking across the street to the woman who had called for him so imperiously.

Greg sat back against the bench. He had no idea what he'd just done, and he had no idea at all what it meant. He unwrapped Mycroft's handkerchief from the now warm icepack, and stared at it. It was red, and had the initials MH embroidered in gold thread in one of the corners. He rubbed it between his fingers, and he looked up at the man across the street.

Whatever they were talking about, it wasn't good. Mycroft was stiffer than usual, fist clenched, like he was missing his umbrella, and his hand was lost without it. His attitude was hard to decipher; the woman was obviously someone whom Mycroft respected, but he seemed very upset by what she was saying.

Greg raised his brows, believing he was seeing the most polite, high-brow, uptight bickering he'd ever witnessed. Thankful he was too far away to actually hear it, Greg went back to running the handkerchief through his fingers, watching the man who moved him so far from his comfort zone.

* * *

Morning came gently to the river, as if apologizing for the rain that had soaked parts of London the night before. Fog cloaked the still green grass of the vast lawn, stifling all sounds. Death watched the grey light of dawn mix with the shadows of the night, the fog prolonging the darkness in the shaded areas. The fog kissed the glass of her window, eventually obscuring the ground below. The river was long lost from sight, and the lamp glow from the boathouse was swallowed up. She touched the glass, feeling the chill on her fingertips.

The great house was quiet. This part of the manor was always quiet. Or it had been, until Mary swayed her decision, and she let her hostages live. Until John Watson had arrived. He had begun to be moderately annoying in the early morning hours while she was visiting Sherlock in the hospital. He had banged on the door until Mary had ordered the guards to figure out what he had wanted. He had demanded supplies to treat the hostages, and proper clothes. Death had plenty of both in abundance, and when Mary had texted her, informing her that she was raiding her supplies and her closet, Death hadn't minded. She had texted Mary back, telling her she had no issues, as long as it kept Dr Watson in a controllable mood. Death had smiled to herself; she had the perfect means by which to control John Watson, and it wasn't by threatening him with violence. All she had to do was maintain control of her very vulnerable hostages. He would obey without hesitation as long as she had the women.

Death turned from the window, and walked from her room, closing the door behind her gently. Death padded down the hall, her feet bare on the wood floor. She had exchanged her black gear for a simple shift, barely enough to cover herself in the cold autumn air, her shoulders bare, her legs exposed from her knees down. Her hair was free from its long braid, the waves in it wild and moving easily in the breeze she made by walking.

She nodded to the guard stationed in the hall, noting with approval that he looked alert, and his weapons ready. He stiffened slightly as she passed, an instinctive tightening of muscles, beyond conscious control. She had that effect on most people. She made no move showing she had seen, and continued on her way.

She had left her weapons behind, in her room not far from Mary's. The older assassin slept lightly, and rose early. Death knew Mary was aware she passed her room, but she wouldn't intrude unless she knew she was welcome. Death had come to appreciate the older woman's presence, much to her surprise. Calm, capable, and she understood Death, better than anyone had since the untimely demise of James. Mary was wary of her, but she wasn't afraid. She accepted Death as she was. So very rare.

Mary had initially been a debt to call even. She had been a woman wronged by Sherlock Holmes, and Death had sympathized. When she learned Mary was compromised, she had done her best to intercede before it was too late. Death had known Mary was in England, almost as soon as she settled, six years ago now. Death had let her be, knowing that she had faked her death as her official retirement. It would have been rude to reemerge in her life, colliding the old with the new. Mary was the only reminder of her previous life, when she followed the will and wishes of her beloved, when he still breathed. Before he became entangled in a game of obsession and control. Before he found Sherlock Holmes.

Death rounded a corner in the grand old house. Her bare feet were soundless. She was heading for the next level, up to the old nursery. Many decades ago the children of the house had been left in the rafters, to be trotted out for guests to be adored before being shuffled out of sight. It was up there that Death sought out her beginning.

Death had spent many years of her life in this building. She hadn't been born to it, but she had briefly been raised in it. The echoes of children laughing followed her down the long hall of the third floor, and she could have sworn she heard whispers from the other side of the nursery door.

She pushed it open, the hinges complaining from disuse. Light came in from the windows, dust shifting in the air. The walls were white plaster, warm red woods bracing the windows, the floor. Small desks were lined up along the wall, pushed to the side. There was a window seat under the largest of the windows, the cushion long gone. She was drawn to it, and her feet took her across the dusty floor. This room was above the fog, and the light came in strong. The fog wouldn't last long this morning. The sun was warm on her feet, her harsh breathing loud in the room, her emotions tumbling from inside her deepest, most secret of hearts. A heart that once beat only for one man, a heart that now had no reason to keep her alive, but for the promise of revenge.

She knelt next to the seat, its size more suitable for a child. Or two small children, who had no one but themselves for company, and love. Two small children left alone in a strange house, with a man they barely knew, their mother freshly entombed in the cold earth. A man who looked at them as things, and not as precious gifts left in his care. Death felt it all come back, and she let it, her grief pulling the memories out of the long abandoned past. She sobbed quietly at sight of the etchings in the wood seat. Her fingers followed the letters carved in the wood, the J and the M so familiar, and very so painful to the touch.

* * *

Sherlock blinked. The light was bright, the curtains pulled back from the windows. There was a snoring coming from the side of his bed, and he turned his head.

_Anderson? Why the hell…. Ah. Mycroft. My babysitter. Woke him up in the middle of the night, no less. Sent him here to make sure I don't leave. So that I don't go after John. _

Sherlock looked towards the morphine drip, noticing that it was almost empty. The flow had slowed as it neared the end, which is why he was awake now. That also meant that the nurses would be in here soon, replacing the drip, and putting him back under. To keep him here. Which was unacceptable. Mycroft wouldn't listen, would make him stay under until he healed. And John would be dead. That thought drove a spike of terror through his heart, and Sherlock refused to let anything stop him. Not even his brother and his meddling.

Anderson was asleep, drooping in the chair, his hands in his lap. Sherlock saw the mobile loosely held in one of his hands. He narrowed his eyes, evaluating Anderson. He was in deep REM sleep, despite his precarious position in the chair.

_Do it now, before you get a nurse in here drugging you into stupidity. Move! _

Sherlock took a deep breath, and rolled over. He fought back a scream, as his entire body protested the move. His ribs stabbed at him, and he froze, panting into the mask. He breathed as deeply as he could, and with infinite care, reached out. He plucked the mobile from Anderson's grasp, and fell back to the bed, gasping as quietly as he could. Anderson slept on, oblivious.

Sherlock woke the mobile, and figured out Anderson's password in less than two seconds. Took longer to type it in that to figure it out. The man was dreadfully obvious in his obsession. Sherlock pulled a number from memory, and began to type, casting glances at the sleeping man and the door.

**Need a jailbreak. Disciple has John. –SH**

Sherlock watched the screen, coming as close as he had in a long time to praying. A minute passed, then another, before he got his reply.

**I've found you. In Paris. Will be there in 4 hours. –VH**

Sherlock felt a rush of relief, glad she had been so near. She moved all over the globe, never staying in one place too long, especially after pulling a job. Sherlock erased the texts, and dropped his arm, letting the mobile fall to the floor. It hit with a sharp clatter, waking the former forensic technician. Sherlock ignored him as he pulled in air, trying to settle the pain.

"Sherlock! You're awake! Ah, let me get a nurse." Anderson looked embarrassed at having been sleeping, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the other man in resigned annoyance. Anderson gulped, and scuttled from the room, calling from the hallway for a nurse. Anderson had a lot more to be embarrassed about than sleeping on the job.

Sherlock groaned, wondering if Violet would get here sooner. Being stuck in a hospital room while high on morphine and having to listen to Anderson ply him with conspiracy theories didn't rank high on his list of worthy endeavors. He had a doctor to rescue.

* * *

Mycroft was very unhappy. Well, he would admit to such a state if he ever admitted to being happy. Neither were likely to happen. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had expressed serious concerns over his handling of Moriarty's disciple, and she had spent the majority of her lecture informing him of it. But there was little she could do, other than stress to him the impropriety of letting his little brother run a disastrous MI6 operation in London. Which ended up leaving several people dead, two buildings blown up, and now a beloved public figure in the form of a certain doctor was missing. And she kept glancing at the bench across the street, were a very befuddled Detective Inspector was sitting.

Mycroft made every point not to look at Gregory Lestrade, determined to keep Lady Smallwood in the dark about his very ambiguous relationship. Dawn had broken, fog clinging to the side streets and alleys, the main streets clearing quickly under the bright sun. Mycroft sighed, wishing he were anywhere but where he currently was. Like the hospital. Or that bench.

"Mycroft." Lady Smallwood was glaring at him. Damn. She had noticed his distraction.

"Yes, Elizabeth?" Mycroft replied, raising a brow in exasperation.

"I am sorry…. About Anthea. She was an admirable woman." Her voice lost the angry edge, and she was looking at him in something close to sympathy.

Mycroft felt the sharp edge of grief stab at his control, and he blinked in the bright morning light. Anthea. His Anthea. The world felt wrong. She was supposed to be by his side, clicking away at her mobile, feeding him information about the world, letting him meddle where needed. But she wasn't. She was gone. There was a void, and he couldn't adapt. He didn't think he'd ever adapt to her absence.

"Yes…. Thank you." Mycroft looked down at the ground, avoiding her eyes.

"I will advise the Prime Minister that you will be handling this situation exclusively from this point. As valuable as your little brother is, he is obviously compromised by his direct involvement. Especially considering the abduction of Dr Watson." She said, watching him for a reaction.

There it was, the real reason she was here this early, giving him a lecture he didn't need. Sherlock. The wild card, the man no one could control. Other than Dr Watson. And seeing as how that inestimable man was missing, Sherlock was a loose cannon. Quite capable of burning down all of London in the effort to find his partner.

"Sherlock is currently incapacitated at St Bart's. He will not be involved anymore." Mycroft replied, his tone implying strongly that the conversation was over.

"Excellent." She nodded to him, and sharply turned on her heel, not even saying goodbye. Not that he minded, the entire conversation had left him vastly uncomfortable.

"She's pleasant." Greg had snuck up behind him, and Mycroft just managed to stop himself from jumping. He looked the DI in the eyes, and what he saw there both reassured him, and left him even more unsettled.

Mycroft Holmes was navigating in waters he had never thought to be in, and the way before him was unclear. All he knew is that he had to find John Watson. Find him, or lose Sherlock.

* * *

John listened to the girls breathe, the sound a hymn healing the wounds their faked deaths had left on his heart. The grief was fading, but fear was taking its place. He had to take care of them. They were injured, and very vulnerable.

Anthea had benefited most from the medical supplies and clothing he'd managed to get from their captors. He had been able to set her fingers, and removed most of the wood from her arm and hand. He feared there might be pieces he was missing, and bones he couldn't fix, but she was a lot better off than she had been. Molly had found her courage, and helped him with Anthea. Donovan had been too weak to help, falling asleep in between Anthea's gasps of pain. She hadn't cried. Anthea hadn't shed a single tear as he straightened her fingers, pulled wood splinters from her flesh, and stitched her up. Not one tear.

John turned his head from where he sat in the armchair under the window, checking to make sure they were all still sleeping. All still alive. Still there. Anthea was finally asleep, aided by the painkillers in the medical kit he'd gotten from Death's people. The dangerous pieces had been removed, like the scalpels and such, but he had done more with less before, and he'd made it work.

Molly was curled up against Anthea's side, and Donovan was finally fully under herself. He'd cleaned the wound on her head and neck, and she'd suffered through it without complaint. He hadn't stitched it up, as the wound was days past that point. He had merely covered it as best he could, and given her some antibiotics. Death's medical supplies were extraordinary, and he found himself wondering why she had them. For a woman callous enough to kill a member of her own guard for failing to stop three women from escaping, to taking out a government aide turned traitor because he no longer had a use, she was strangely out of character.

The girls were adamant that Mary had spared them, convincing Death that she didn't have to kill them. And Death had implied as much last night, when she threw him in here. And she was letting him stay with the girls, when he knew that keeping prisoners divided was one of the best ways to maintain control. She was doing all of this so differently than he would have expected. But then, she was insane. And it seemed Mary Morstan had a surprising level of influence over the disciple. John didn't know whether that was a good thing or not; Mary hadn't seemed inclined to show him mercy last night.

John tossed all thought of his ex out of his mind; there was someone far more important he was worried about. Sherlock. Mary had said he was alive. That's it. No word on how badly he was hurt. Nothing. For all he knew, Sherlock could be on a ventilator in a hospital, dying from internal injuries. Or he could be hounding Mrs. Hudson for some biscuits while he planned a brazen rescue. John could hope. Though considering that they were all still alive, and that Death wasn't singing in the halls, John figured that Sherlock was hurt, but still functional. Physically able to function. What worried John the most is how his detective was handling his abduction.

Sherlock had snapped when the assassins had threatened him with their rifles the other night at 221B. Lost it totally. Fear had overwhelmed him, panic making him shut down. John could only pray that Sherlock wouldn't break apart now. He needed his detective, the miracle. The man who claimed to be invincible.

John missed Sherlock with a sharp pain in his chest, like he'd been stabbed. He shut his eyes tightly, and breathed through it. Worry, fear, doubt, it was all there, making a racket in his head. And love. Love was there, too. God, how he loved his detective.

_Sherlock. Hurry._

* * *

Sherlock was slipping in and out of sleep, the morphine keeping Anderson from getting too annoying. He had droned on and on about nonsensical theories all morning. The man realized at some point in the day that Sherlock really wasn't following along, and had settled for playing a depressingly cheerful app on his mobile. Little tweets and chirps and bird noises.

_Hurry up Violet, or I'm going to kill myself killing Anderson._

It was enough to make Sherlock believe in the divine. Her voice suddenly broke out over the hospital intercom system, something about a car being towed due to improper parking, and Sherlock restrained a giggle at the description of Anderson's car. She had masked her American accent well, though Sherlock could still hear traces of it. No one else would, though.

The annoying bird noises stopped, and Sherlock stayed relaxed, letting the man think he was still asleep. He nearly was anyway, the morphine was still set on high, but he was adapting to it. Sherlock just stayed relaxed, and he heard Anderson get up, and throw on his jacket, swearing as he left the room.

He didn't know how long it took, but there was a beeping noise, and he was able to think clearer. Someone had turned down the morphine. Sherlock blinked away the fog, and looked up, into the most unique pair of eyes he'd ever seen. Violet eyes, for the girl named Violet Hunter. Black waves of silky hair framed a lightly tanned face, and she grinned wide as he met her eyes. Sherlock grinned back in return, the delight on her face at misbehaving infectious.

Violet removed the IV and the oxygen mask, silencing the machines as she disconnected him.

"Sexy, what the hell happened? Never mind, I know what happened, hacked MI6 on my way over the Channel. What a cluster fuck! And did you know your brother already locked you out of your access to the network? What a bitchy thing to do. Anyway, let's blow this popsicle stand, hospitals freak me the fuck out." Violet kept chattering away at him, knowing he really wasn't able to do more than blink at her in his current state. She had that covered, and he felt a sharp jab in his arm. His brain cleared remarkably quickly, and the pain dulled with the fog. Adrenaline. She always was very smart.

The shot made his heart race, but he was able to sit up, being careful not to bend too much. He steadied himself on the bed, feet on the floor, as the room spun. She had shut the door, and was pulling clothing out of a bag. Sherlock didn't even blink as she ripped his few pieces of clothing off, and helped him into clothes she must have raided from his flat. She even had his coat, which was relatively unscathed, though it did smell like smoke.

She had him dressed in less than two minutes, and he stood, gaining his balance by putting a hand on her shoulder. She walked a few steps, her height near to his, and she roped an arm around his waist, letting him put his weight on her as they stepped out into the hall. Violet glanced up and down the hall, and she took more of his weight before briskly stepping out. Sherlock matched her, bottling down the pain. This was the hard part; getting out of the hospital without getting noticed.

But Violet Hunter was more than a hacker; she was an American girl raised on causing trouble, and she did it well. Sherlock grinned in admiration as she hit the fire alarm on their way down the hall, where she pulled him into the stair well. She paused for brief second, and pulled the pin on something that looked suspiciously like a grenade. He knew better; it was smoke bomb, and she dropped it right in front of the staircase door. No one would use the stairs here with smoke billowing out of them. She cast him a look full of mischief, and she practically carried him down the stairs to the emergency exit doors. He blacked out, but he trusted her to get him out in one piece.

He came to in the front passenger seat of a very expensive car, a very bright yellow Ferrari. The engine roared, and he looked over to see Violet clicking away at her laptop, eyes narrowed in concentration, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she worked, her foot caressing the gas pedal.

"Disabling the CCTV cameras in a ten block radius. It'll mess everyone up enough for us to get away. And seriously, who would expect you to be in a bright yellow Ferrari with a sexy chick?" Violet laughed, and tossed her laptop gently on his lap.

"Where to, sexy?" She asked, putting the car in gear, and she drove from the rear parking lot of the hospital, dodging around other vehicles like they were standing still.

"Leinster Gardens, 23-24." Sherlock murmured, and he pulled his coat up higher around his face, hands in his pocket. He wasn't at all concerned by her speed, and relaxed into the seat.

He felt something in his pocket, some kind of plastic stick. He ran his fingers over it, and felt his heart jump in his chest as he recognized it.

"_Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can." _Mary's whisper came back to him, the words she had whispered in his ear, just before she used the Taser on him. Sherlock discretely looked down, and saw the pregnancy test stick in his pocket. The results made his eyes widen; his first thought was of John. His doctor. His John, his lover.

Mary was pregnant with John's baby. _Oh, John…._

* * *

Mycroft stood in his bunker, watching as a crew cleaned up the mess from the floor. The traitor's body had been removed, and Mycroft was impatient to get started. To see how deeply Death had wormed her way into the systems.

His pocket buzzed, and Mycroft pulled out his mobile. He felt a sense of inevitable dread come over him when he saw it was from Anderson.

**Sorry, sir. He's gone. –PA**

Mycroft gripped the mobile tightly, and spun on his heel. He strode from the bunker, and went hunting for his Detective Inspector. Surely the man would be able to find a severely injured consulting detective.

* * *

Violet wove the bright Ferrari through the early afternoon traffic, unconcerned at the horn blasts and fingers tossed in her direction. Sherlock needed to rest, flat on his back. And she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't rest as long as his boyfriend was in danger.

_Boyfriend and Sherlock Holmes in the same sentence. Holy shit. Never ever thought I'd see the day._

Violet had met Sherlock Holmes over a decade ago, back when she had hacked her way into his university. She had been well under the usual age, and Sherlock had taken all of two minutes to figure out what she had done. Violet didn't have an official education; she had been on her own since she was thirteen, and school had always been a bore. But she had known that there were things a university could teach her that she couldn't get online. So she had enrolled herself in the best university she could find that had what she wanted.

Sherlock had seen, called her on it, and promptly kept his mouth shut. He hadn't turned her in, hadn't said a word to anyone. And so she went to classes, paid attention to what she wanted, and pretended she didn't notice that Sherlock was keeping an eye on her.

He hadn't been obvious, and he hadn't interfered. Sherlock had only ever sought her out when he needed code cracked, someone's computer hacked, or a piece of information he couldn't get from somewhere else. And in return, he took her dancing. The very anti-social, neurotic, grumpy and intimidating, highly intelligent Sherlock Holmes could dance. Very well.

Violet had caught him at it one night, in one of the closed up lecture halls. She had heard music playing, and having zero personal boundaries, decided to snoop. And there he was, dancing by himself. His hair had been much longer then, and he was skinnier, and the dorky picture he had made had almost distracted her from the fact that he was _amazing._

He had been angry at first, when he had seen her smiling at him just inside the door. But he hadn't a chance to leave, or to start complaining before she threw the lock, and stepped into his arms. She loved to dance too. He had let her lead for all of three seconds before a massive grin broke across his face, and he took over. They had danced that night for hours, everything from the waltz to the tango. Man could move, and he pushed her skills to the limit.

Violet knew he was relieved when she never pushed him for anything beyond dancing. Beyond the occasional company, and working on solving puzzles. Violet cared for him a great deal, but he wasn't her type. She wasn't interested in men that much. Loved to flirt with them, as they were so easy to fluster, but that was it. She was still surprised to this day that it had taken Sherlock Holmes so long to notice that she was gay. But then, he hadn't been interested in sex of any kind, to the point of asexuality, that she really shouldn't be surprised. He had been younger then, and she had no doubt that if he were to meet her for the first time today, he'd pick it up immediately.

Violet looked at him, trapped in a foggy state of pain and nerves. He was older, more muscles on his frame, and he seemed to have found a better hold on his abilities. As a younger man, it took an act of God to get him to shut up when it came to his deductions, and she was glad he had found success as the world's only consulting detective. Gave him something purposeful to do. And it brought him love. John Watson.

Violet took the corner hard into Leinster Gardens, glad it was a work day and that most people in the area were out. She killed the engine right outside 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens, and hopped out, running to his side of the car. She pulled the door open, and caught him as he started to spill out.

"C'mon sexy, get up." She yanked him up, glad she didn't fit the stereotype of the usual hacker. She made it a point to work out often, and she was thanking that habit as she all but carried the detective up to the doors.

"Keys, in my pocket….." He gasped out, the shot and the morphine clearly worn off by this point.

She dug out his keys, and found the right one. She kicked the door open, and dragged him over the threshold. She recognized immediately what this place was. The rumble of the Underground wasn't loud, the concrete walls muffled the sound, but the vibrations underfoot were strong. She dragged him into a small alcove, and dropped him gently on a settee covered in dust.

"Stay here, I'm getting my gear, and dumping the car. Ten minutes." She didn't even stop to see if he responded, spinning on her heels and booking it for the car. She slammed the door shut, and ran to the Ferrari. She gunned it out of the street, heading for a nearby lot. Violet knew these streets well; she had lived in London for almost three years before moving on.

Mycroft Holmes had been uncomfortable with his little brother being so close to a woman who could, and did, hack into any government system on the planet. Violet had merely offered the opinion that he didn't like Sherlock having a life, one that didn't follow his expectations. Sherlock had laughed at the look on his brother's face, and she knew she hadn't made a friend that day. But not an enemy either; Mycroft was far too pragmatic not to see the value in knowing someone with her skill set. And so she was tolerated, and Violet hadn't any regrets when the jobs started pouring in. That meant money, and independence.

Violet pulled her thoughts out of the past, and jumped the curb next to a secure car lot, driving out of view of the camera that covered the front part of the entrance. The low slung car slid with ease under the gate, less than an inch to spare. She drove it to the back of the lot, and pulled it into a spot in the far rear, out of sight. She didn't care about the damage she had caused jumping the curb, the car wasn't hers. Violet wiped down the interior, grabbed her laptop and her small duffel from the floor. She left the keys on the front seat, and walked off without a glance back.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and using the Find-A-Cab app, called for a taxi. It was the same app that Sherlock used, and one she had designed. Another way to bring in the bling. Though her pal got it for free.

_Now for the hard part! Avoiding Mycroft Holmes and helping Sherlock track down a pyscho bitch!_

* * *

Sherlock struggled not to pass out. Violet had only been gone for a few minutes, and he knew she would be back. There was no time to waste.

Mycroft locking him out of the system meant the government was kicking him out of the search for Death. And Mycroft would be looking for him. Violet was very skilled, but she was one woman, and his brother literally had an army.

Sherlock tugged the pregnancy test stick out of his pocket, and stared at it. Mary was pregnant. She was carrying John's child. Sherlock knew his doctor well; John would welcome a child, no matter who the mother was. John's capacity to love was bottomless, as clearly evidenced by the love he gave Sherlock without hesitation. So this child must live; which meant that Mary must live. She wouldn't have told Sherlock she was pregnant unless she wanted to have the baby. Mary didn't need to hide behind pregnancy to keep people from hurting her; she was more than able to keep herself safe. The trouble would come in keeping everyone else from killing Mary without telling the world she was pregnant. If Death learned she was pregnant, who knew what that madwoman would do? Mary might even end up a prisoner herself, instead of a free agent with full access to Death and her plans. So no one must know, other than a select few. If they could be trusted not to pull the trigger if given a clear shot.

"_Behave, and listen to me. They're coming back now." She leaned over him, and put her lips to his ear. "I was tasked with disabling you, and keeping you from the townhouse. It's too late to stop her, but you can follow. Find Blackwood, Sherlock, and you'll find Death. The river, you'll always see the river." Sherlock heard footsteps in the hall, mere feet from the doorway. "Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can."_

That moment came back to him in its entirety; she had given him a clue to find Death. Sherlock knew who she was, all the evidence was pointing straight at it. Who she was may very well lead to where she was. Now, to prove it, remove all doubt.

Violet came back in, locking and shutting the door behind her. Nine minutes and fifty three seconds after leaving him on the settee. She was good. He'd stomach his pride and go dancing with her. Hopefully with John, too. Though that was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to having.

"You still alive? I've got some cocktails from these Colombians I met in L.A. Excellent at killing all pain receptors, and knocking your education back a few years." Violet sat on the floor next to the settee, pulling out her laptop, and assorted other gear.

"Pain's manageable." He said, watching as she set up her mobile Internet access, the satellite connections, and her firewall. No one was going to be able to backtrack her to this place. "I'll prefer to remember my name for a while longer, thank you."

"Glad to see you kicked the substance habit. Just let me know if it gets too bad." She maneuvered herself so she was sitting against the settee, and he could watch over her shoulder. "Direct me, Mr. Holmes. Who we pissing off first?"

"I need to see what happened last night when John was taken." Sherlock said, stamping down on the pain and fear racing through his heart at the thought of John in danger. "I need to know how she got to him; I left him in Mycroft's bunker, he should have been safe."

"Yes, that's perfect! Hacking your big brother, literally! Ohhh sweet….." Sherlock ignored her mumbling, well used to it, even after all these years. She and Mycroft had a contentious relationship, to say the least. He watched as she hacked into the MI6 systems, pulled up the video footage of Mycroft's home, the bunker.

Sherlock watched, his heart in his throat, as Death blew up his brother's house. As she killed the security team, and accessed the bunker's door. As it opened for her. Sherlock's brow furrowed at that, but he would came back to it in a moment. The feeds continued on, and he saw John hold Death at gunpoint, until the traitor pulled a gun on Mycroft.

"Oh shit, a traitor? In Mycroft's house? Holy crap…." Violet breathed, as caught up as he in the scene unfolding. "John's got some guts, sexy."

Sherlock saw John give up his weapon, and he growled when he saw Death drop John to his knees, and blow the traitor's head off. Violet flinched, and buried her face in his arm for a second as the debris from the impact sprayed the men tied up on the floor.

"_Copy that, dear. Mission complete on my end. See you at home." _Sherlock's attention was caught by that phrase; Death hadn't repeated Mary's use of the word 'base'. She had said 'home'. He snapped himself away from that thought, and found himself wishing John was here, aside from the obvious reasons. John helped him focus.

Sherlock kept watching, anger building in him as she assaulted his brother, and knocked out Lestrade. She left them alive; she hadn't killed them. This worried Sherlock; it seemed that whatever her endgame was, she wanted people alive to see it. People she saw as involved, no matter how tenuously, in the death of Jim Moriarty.

"Ok, he was fine when she took him. Doesn't seem to have hurt in any; just a sore wrist." Violet said, ending the footage just as a new security team swept into the bunker and freed everyone.

"She means to keep him alive until I come for him, then she'll kill us all, and herself too." Sherlock said, leaning back on the armrest.

"Creepy and crazy, awesome." Violet turned her head, and met his eyes. "What next?"

"This all started when I came back from London, and stopped Lord Moran from destroying Parliament. She was playing as his wife for the last two years. No record of her existing before that, at all. We know from her actions at Blackwood Chemical, and the evidence gathered, that she was a disciple of Moriarty. The words she used were a variant of the same he used when he threatened me at the pool three years ago. She could only have known them if she were very close to him, or if she were there. I believe both. She is a skilled assassin, exceedingly talented. It's possible she was there that night, one of the snipers holding John and I under threat."

Violet settled in, and watched him. Watching this man pull the threads of a mystery together was never tiring. Like breaking an unbreakable code, it was addicting.

"She has had two years to exact vengeance. It's clear she knew I wasn't dead. So what made her not kill John, or Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson? All the other disciples had orders to kill them if I wasn't dead. She instead pretends to be a socialite, and stays wed to a man she had no issue killing the second he does something stupid. She acted only after Moran was arrested, as if he were the only thing stopping her. So what kept her hidden?"

Violet shrugged, and Sherlock smiled at her. "Well, it's obvious, really. She's out for vengeance for the death of Moriarty. She loved him, a great deal. The only reason she would restrain herself is if he had told her to stay hidden from the world. To keep her safe, unmolested. To be Sybil Moran, and not Death. Why would he care that much, even for his greatest disciple? The only reason he would care is if he loved her back."

Sherlock sat up, and gasped at the pain. "Now who would Moriarty love? He was a sociopath, purest form. It would have to be someone who had been in his life for a very long time, someone who had always been important. Moriarty wasn't one to keep pets of people, or to form strong attachments. So it wouldn't be a lover, or a friend. It would be family."

Sherlock nodded as Violet sucked in a breath in shock, her eyes wide. "Yes. Family. She is a Moriarty. And from her age, mannerisms, the way she speaks and moves, I'd say sister. She is so very similar to him, the only difference is that she is willing to be physical. Get her hands dirty. She was the blade, the sword; he was the master planner, the brains of the whole syndicate. He issued the orders, she executed them."

"Death is Jim Moriarty's sister."

* * *

** Twenty-five years ago….. Blackwood Manor**

"He scares me, Jimmy." She whispered, holding her brother's hand as she huddled on the seat, feeling brave as she peeked out the window to the ground far below. She was very brave for a little girl of five, her brother always said so. And she always listened to Jimmy. Her big brother was her best friend, and Mommy said he would always look out for her.

"Don't worry, I'm here. I won't let him get you." Jimmy tugged at a shiny brown curl that fell from her pigtail, very careful not to hurt. He was always playing with her, teasing her, pulling her after him as he got them both into trouble. But Jimmy was very smart, he always got them right back out.

Jimmy snuggled his baby sister under his arm, wincing when she pressed too hard against the sore spot on his ribs. Blackwood had caught Jimmy spying on him, and his fist had left a dark spot. Jimmy vowed next time not to get caught, he had to be better. He would be better. Blackwood was nasty, he was mean, and his eyes followed his little sister everywhere she went. Jimmy had promised his mother he would protect his baby sister with everything he had in him, no matter what happened.

Jimmy missed his old home, his old room, his Mom. She had brought them here after she got married to Blackwood, promising them bigger rooms, more friends, clean clothes, and presents for Christmas. All Jimmy had wanted was books, and a chemistry set like the boy in his year had. Jimmy liked books, he read all the time. Mommy was very proud of him, always said he was the fastest reader of all the seven-year olds she knew. Jimmy liked science and figuring out how things worked, and Mommy let him tear apart his toys, just to put them back together again.

Then Mommy got sad, and sick, and Blackwood got meaner. He had been mean before, but he had ignored the two little children before his wife began to tire him. Jimmy had heard Blackwood tell Mommy that it was all her fault, everything was her fault, and that she made him hurt her. Jimmy knew Blackwood was lying. Mommy never made bad things happen. She fixed the bad things. Jimmy wished she were here, so she could fix Blackwood. Keep him away from his baby sister.

Jimmy held his sister as she dosed against him, her tiny form warm on his bruises. Jimmy used to say all the time he remembered when she was born, a squalling bundle of mean screams. Jimmy would to brag to his Daddy about it, when ever she was really cranky or loud. Jimmy got sad as he remembered what his dad said to him.

_"Of course she's loud, lad! She's Irish, and a Moriarty!"_ Dad would ruffle his dark brown hair, and Jimmy would smile up at him. Daddy had been gone since Jimmy was five, same age his baby sister was now. Mommy had cried for a long time, and Jimmy took care of his sister.

Then Mommy had married Blackwood, and then Mommy got sick, and died. Jimmy was alone now, little Jaime, his baby sister, all he had left. Blackwood wanted to hurt Jaime, and Jimmy was going to stop him.

* * *

**Now**

Death lifted her head from her arms, where she had rested against the warm wood of the window seat. Her fingers traced the faint outlines of markings in the wood, the twin J's intertwined with the single M. She glanced at her hand, and smiled at the ring she wore. The M's matched, even years later.

"I will not fail you, Jimmy. You were the only person in this world I loved. The only man I loved. Whom I could stand to love. You kept me safe, no matter what. I never blamed you when you couldn't stop him." Death whispered to the letters scratched into the old wood, by childish hands. Jimmy had helped her, an act of rebellion one night long ago as they hid from their tormentor. "I told Moran the truth, the day I killed him. You were the man I loved more than anything in this world."

She smiled at herself. Calling him Jimmy again, just from seeing these marks. He hated it when he got older, preferring Jim. She had of course gone a step farther, and called him James. He had grumbled every time she did, as he always said he wanted to be called Jim, James sounded too much like Jaime. And she had complained, what's wrong with my name?

The world assumed her relationship with the late, great James Moriarty was something other than the truth. It had served to hide her identity, and his. Tracking two Moriarty children would have been easier than the one. She never even called herself Jaime anymore. No one left living knew that name. Had ever spoken it. Death had gone by so many names over the last two decades, and she held no emotional attachment to any of them. Just his name. Always his name. Her brother, her protector, her master. James Moriarty.

Her one true love. Ashes now. Ashes and rage. She would be with him soon, and she wouldn't be going alone.


	31. The Younger Moriarty

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**A huge thank you to all my reviewers, followers, everyone who has favored this story. **

**WARNING: Mentions of child abuse. Swearing. Brief violence.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty One**

"_**The Younger Moriarty"**_

John jumped at the noise outside the door. He stood, ready to face whatever came through. No one had come to the door in hours, not since a dour faced guard had tossed in a sack full of bottled water and breakfast sandwiches from a deli. It was obvious their captors weren't using the house's kitchen. _Probably no one in this place knows what to do with a knife other than slit someone's throat with it._ It was well into evening now. The sun was setting, intense orange colors burnishing the walls and floor.

Someone was unlocking the door, and sure enough, it was opening. John stiffened in dismay. It was Death. She pushed the door open with her fingertips, and gave him an endearing smile; or it would have been if it wasn't from her. John glanced at the bed. The girls were asleep, but for Molly. She sat up quickly, and John motioned for her to stay on the bed.

Death stepped in, just at the threshold, leaving the door wide. John could see past her, at the two guards at her back. She was dressed all in black, from the black band that held her hair back from her face, all the way down to her combat books. Their captor was beautiful, so much so that John was disturbed. Such evil shouldn't be allowed to look so wonderful. She had no weapons beyond her knife; but then she didn't need a gun, as the men behind her were armed, and had their guns trained on him. The long silver blade was the only flash of light about her, and it glimmered menacingly from the sheath on her thigh. She looked disconcertingly lovely. As if the past weeks had been nothing but a bad dream, and she was just visiting friends.

"Hello, John. Settled in nicely, I see." Death said, her voice low. Molly was shaking, and Death smiled sweetly at her. For some reason this made Molly flinch, and John fought to control his rage that boiled up from the depths. He would be able to help no one if he was dead.

"Leave her alone." John said. He moved between Death and Molly, not caring that her guards reacted. Death raised her hand, and they stayed back in the hall.

"I'm just here to say hello. No need to get upset." Death said, and walked in the room, moving around him like he wasn't standing between her and the bed. John clenched his fists, and it took all he had not to snap her neck as she brushed by him.

"And how are my guests? Molly? You look a little ill." Death sat on the bed, and her movement woke Anthea and Donovan. Neither moved, their eyes locked on their captor. Molly bit her lip, and her eyes were begging John to make the monster leave her alone.

"What do you want? You've already done enough to them." John growled. Death ignored him, and continued to look at Molly. As if she were an interesting new animal at the zoo, one she hadn't expected to see.

"Molly. Now that I've spared you, I'm finding myself curious. Is there more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye? There almost always is, with women at least. And then, there is the men in your life. You so briefly held James' attention all those years ago." Death said, her tone sickly sweet and somehow predatory. "And the great Sherlock Holmes is very fond of you, as well."

"What's the matter, you jealous? Your psycho boyfriend paid attention to another woman and you think you'll come in here and torture her? Leave her alone." John said, standing as close as he dared to Death, keeping an eye on her twitchy guards. He'd say anything to get her to leave Molly alone.

"Psycho boyfriend?" Death whispered, and Molly pushed back towards the headboard at the look on her face. Death breathed in deep, and held it. She rose, and John mentally cursed himself, thinking he was going to get a repeat of last night. She slowly turned, and looked him in the face. His blood ran cold. Her eyes were madness. John would say until his dying day that he caught a glimpse of an abyss in them. There was nothing sane in them. Death stood so close to him that she was only inches away. He could smell her shampoo, and the slightest hint of peppermint.

She spoke, but not to him. She kept her eyes locked on his, and addressed Molly.

"Molly, tell Dr Watson who I am." Death ordered, her voice a low purr, sensual and dark.

John saw Molly shake her head in denial, and the other women sat up, gazing at Molly too. John focused on Molly, who was biting her lip, and looking at her feet. _What does Molly know?_

"Molly, my dear. You recognized me instantly when I came for you at St Bart's Hospital. Tell your friends who I am." Death put an edge of command into her voice, and Molly jumped.

"You…. You have his eyes. Jim's eyes." Molly stammered out. She took a deep breath, and continued. "Same pattern to the irises, same colors and depths."

Death smiled, and John felt the revelation all the way to his bones. This was so much worse than a girlfriend avenging a lost love. _No no no…._

"She is …. Moriarty's sister." Molly said, her voice full of fear. John backed up a step, suddenly terrified to be so near. Hearing it spoken aloud made the light dim, the air grow heavy._ This isn't possible. She can't be. Dear God, she is!_

When Sherlock had brought up the video feed of Sybil Moran and her husband on the day Moran died, John had felt a powerful sense of familiarity. The woman before him had struck a chord, as if he knew her. He realized now that he hadn't been seeing her; he had seen the ghost of her brother. He was there in her, from the way she tilted her head, to the expressive eyes that shone brightly with their inner fires. They were alike as siblings could be without being twins. All the way down to the madness.

Death let John look, and she could see in his face the recognition, the way her eyes matched her big brother's so exactly. "Men, always taking so long to see things, even small details. Well, most men_._ Sherlock had seen as soon as I was close enough. Meek Molly Hooper had known immediately."

"Hello, John Watson." Death sighed dramatically, and swept her hands out wide. "A long time ago, I was once Jaime Moriarty. Welcome to my childhood home." Death laughed, her voice beautiful and horrid all at the same time. As she spoke, the socialite-influenced tones fell away, and John could hear a hint of the fair green isle in her voice. _She even sounds like him_!

"Dear God." John wasn't even aware he spoke out loud, not until she laughed softly.

"Poor Sherlock. Wonder how he'll handle knowing that if Molly had just seen a picture of me days ago, that none of this might have happened? He might have found me by now, and instead of everyone he loves feeling my pain, it would just be the two of us." Death walked to the window, lazily staring out through the glass. She lifted her hand, moving it in the brilliant rays of the setting sun. Long shadows fell from her fingers, while the dying sun set the top of her hand on fire. John could almost believe she was burning in that moment, before she dropped her hand. Her next words struck him to his soul. "Now, the whole of London shall burn. I can't wait to feel the flames, can you?"

John had nothing to say, no words to offer this madwoman. She would do as she chose, and the only way to stop her was in death. John found himself wishing he had taken the shot in the bunker, before her traitor pulled on Mycroft. They might all be dead as a result but London would be safe.

"Oh well, hardly matters now. This will all be over soon anyway. Just waiting on Sherlock. My men should be finishing up the last details anytime now." Death said cheerfully, turning to face John. He was still staring at her, his mind and soul disturbed to a degree he hadn't known possible by the fact that this creature was a Moriarty. Suddenly it seemed as if all hope was lost. As if her bloodline made her even more deadly.

_There was more than one in the world, and we never knew. Evil's been with us the whole time….._

"I went to visit your lover last night, John." She didn't react as he paled, hands making fists. John was afraid of what she would say next. She was calm, with a teasing smile hovering about her lips. "He was in the hospital, heavily sedated and suffering from several broken ribs and a lacerated lung."

John sucked in a breath, worry making him feel ill. Sherlock was in a bad way indeed if one of his ribs had lacerated his lung. He could begin to bleed internally, and die a slow death. It could collapse if he did anything strenuous. Like trying to rescue John and stop Moriarty's disciple. _Sister, his sister!_

"He was lucid enough to recognize me. It was very sweet. He seemed to know who I was the second we kissed." Death tossed that out casually. As if she kissed Sherlock Holmes every day. "You're very lucky, darling. He's a great kisser."

He snapped. It was too much. John growled deep in his throat, anger making his vision go red. He didn't even realize he took a step forward until the click of the gun in his ear made him stop. The cold end of a barrel pressed to his temple, and he froze.

"John. Don't be difficult." Mary said. She had come from nowhere, her approach silent.

"Mary! Wonderful of you to stop by. Don't mind John, dear. He's just a teensy bit jealous." Death smirked at him. John swallowed, and felt his anger fade. Something else was taking its place. Betrayal and heart ache.

John relaxed as the barrel pulled away from his head, and he turned. Mary held a gun leveled directly at him, her gorgeous blue eyes bright with something he couldn't place. It looked like fear, but she had nothing to fear from him. She had the gun. She stood as if the gun weighed nothing, one arm holding it perfectly aimed for her chosen kill spot, unmoving. Mary held the weapon as if she had been born wielding it.

John looked past the gun, and his heart was breaking anew at the look on her face. He knew this woman, regardless of her lies. He knew that expression on her face. Everything in him was saying that she was begging him to stop, to behave. Her expression was superficially neutral, but for the stress around her eyes and mouth.

_Why is she worried? She's worried and yet she pulls a gun and points it at my temple…. But she is worried, I see it in her eyes…._ John nodded slightly, so vaguely that only she could see, being so close to him. He didn't know what to think. This Mary, in this way, was so alien to him, yet so very familiar.

Mary stepped back, and lowered the gun. She kept her finger on the trigger, ready to bring it back up at a moment's notice. Anthea was sitting up, her expression blank but watchful, and Donovan looked like she wanted to jump off the bed and start hitting someone. Molly was pale, eyes dancing between the three of them as they stood in the middle of the room.

Death giggled in glee as she walked to Mary's side. Death stroked a hand across the back of Mary's shoulder, and hugged her with one arm. John felt his stomach roll as Death leaned in, and kissed Mary on her bruised cheek.

"Nice to know where your loyalties lie, Mary. I admit, I was concerned." Death nuzzled her face in Mary's ear, and Mary didn't shrug her off. Mary had yet to take her eyes off John. Her eyes were screaming something at him, but John was distracted by the very disturbing image of Jim Moriarty's sister nuzzling his ex-fiancé.

"I was coming to tell you that your teams have returned. They're waiting in the ballroom for their debriefing. Team leaders informed me that they have your packages." Mary said evenly. As if Death snuggled with her every day. For all John knew, they could be more than old acquaintances. They could even be lovers. His stomach threatened to revolt at the thought, and he bit his tongue. _I will NOT vomit in front of them._

"Excellent timing on their part! I'll just be off then. I'll be back later, John, ladies. Do enjoy your stay, I'll see about dinner." Death planted one last kiss on Mary's cheek, her eyes lighting up in delight as she saw John's jaw clench in anger. John had the sneaking suspicion that she was messing with him.

Death turned, and walked into the hall. She pulled her silver knife from its thigh sheath, and John could see her tossing it into the air as she went down the long hall. The blade cut a silver blaze of light as it tumbled through the air before being caught in long slim fingers, just to be tossed right back up. The madwoman was practically skipping in joy. Whatever her men had just done, it made her happy. And that terrified John.

The two guards repositioned themselves, one of them peeling off from the door and following behind his mistress. The other moved away from the door, as if trusting that Mary could keep them all in line. And John had no doubt that she could.

"John." Mary's voice snapped him back from watching Death disappear down the stairs.

"Mary." He let his voice convey his anger, disappointment, and the pain, all of it.

"I bargained for the lives of your friends. I couldn't do the same for you. Don't give her a reason to hurt you." Mary warned him, her voice sharp, as if she were trying to hide fear behind anger. She clicked the safety on the gun as she tucked it in the holster on her thigh.

John's eyes were drawn by the movement, and his nerves tingled when he saw the weapon. She had his gun. Mary was using his service weapon, the one Death took from him in the bunker. His eyes darted up to hers, and she gave just the barest hint of acknowledgment. It was the tiniest of smiles, at odds with the tension between them. Her eyes were hypnotic, and John couldn't look away. She seemed to be waiting for something, and John remembered with a jolt that she had warned him.

"Ah, sure. I'll keep that in mind." John replied, his voice vague. The guard was back in the doorway, as if waiting for Mary to leave. She nodded curtly to the man behind her, and she left, holding his eyes until the last second. The guard shut the door, the lock snapping loudly in the quiet left behind in her wake.

"This is so not good." John murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the door, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes. "She's a Moriarty. Dear God."

John could hear Anthea and Donovan whispering behind him, discussing the identity of their host. Molly crawled up next to him, and rested her head on his shoulder. "What did she mean, Sherlock 'was' in the hospital?"

"Yeah, I caught that too. Sherlock's escaped the hospital. He's closing in on Death." John replied, voice low, not wanting to let the guard hear him. "I just hope for his sake that he's got help."

"Sherlock will save us." There was no doubt in Molly's voice, and John smiled at her conviction.

_I just hope he has someone to save him. I'm currently unavailable. Be careful, Sherlock._

* * *

"Violet, see how she got the bunker door to open. See if it was the turncoat, or if she had some other means in." Sherlock said to the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his settee.

"Yeah, sure. Gimme a sec." Violet attacked her laptop, and Sherlock watched the lines of code fly by on the screen. The joys of having your own hacker. Almost as good as having your own doctor.

Sherlock felt a stab of pain that hurt worse than his ribs. John. She had him. A Moriarty had John. _Focus dammit! You can't help him if all you can do is sit here and worry!_

"Hey, here we go. Looks like that ID has been in there for…Wow, let me pile on the sarcasm! What a coincidence. The night you caught Moran." Violet kept clicking away, and Sherlock saw her pull up the ID on the screen. There was no picture with the name. "Says it belongs to Moriarty, J."

"Hhhhhhmmm. 'J' for Jim? Or perhaps that's her initial?" Sherlock mused. "I think it's likely that the 'J' is hers, as if she's poking fun at the whole situation. Most would assume it's his name, but that's too obvious. We all know she's out to avenge Moriarty, not use his name…."

"I think it's hers. If they're siblings, it stands to reason that their names could have the same initials. Parents lack originality like that no matter where you're from." Violet grumbled. "And women aren't that silly. Sorry. We just aren't. We wouldn't go around using our dead brother's name, that's just weird."

"Violet, bring up the files that MI6 gave Scotland Yard, the ones on Moriarty. The files they used to clear my name." Sherlock asked, trying in vain to get comfortable on the settee.

"Sure, I've already got them on my hard drive. I've been following along since you pulled your swan dive maneuver." She threw him a look as he continued to shift and fidget. "I really think you either need to lie down, or let me stick you with one of my cocktails. Sweetie, you look like you're about to die."

Sherlock thought about it, biting his lip. He couldn't afford to turn off his brain. John needed him. Screw the rest of the world, he needed to rescue John. For John he'd stay sober.

"Any adrenaline left?" He asked, willing to compromise.

"Only got a couple left. Think we should save those until we actually need to move." Violet said, her face clearly showing her concern and exasperation. Violet wasn't one to be subtle. "Mycroft will eventually catch on; he'll figure you couldn't get out on your own. And there are only so many people you'd call. I can theoretically hold him off forever, but I'll have an easier time of it if we change locations. We'll need to leave in the next day or so if we can't find Moriarty."

"I know, I know." Sherlock waved her concern away, finally giving up and resting fully on his back. The strain of holding himself up eased, and he didn't have to fight as hard to breathe. "I need to find John. Don't let me sleep. Please."

"But….." She paused as she caught his eye; for the first time in their long relationship, he had a pleading look about him that just slapped her heart in all the right places. "Oh, fuck it. I won't let you sleep. But if you pass out and start to die, I'm calling your brother. And it's gotta be bad for me to call him."

He just gave her a smirk, and waved at her to get back to the files. She huffed, and pulled them up.

"Okay, what am I after?" Violet asked, idly scrolling through the files she'd stolen from MI6.

"Track big brother Jim as far back as you can. Skip long breaks in time; go back to the earliest record of him anyone could find." Sherlock figured they might as well start at the beginning. "And see if Scotland Yard and MI6 had any luck in finding out where that bloody boat went. The one Miss Moriarty used to get to Blackwood."

"_The river, you'll always see the river." _Mary's voice came to him past the pain, circling in his head. "Never mind tracking him. She said that if I found Blackwood, I'd find Death. And that I'd always see the river."

"Who said?" Violet asked, twisting around, almost spilling her laptop on to the floor.

"Mary, before she knocked me out." Sherlock murmured, wondering at her phrasing. "Find Blackwood? We know where Blackwood is, why say to find it? Unless….. There's more than one Blackwood."

"Mary? John's ex-girlfriend? She's on our side now?" Violet set her computer down, as it ran its search through the files on Moriarty. She had typed in the Blackwood name, and the computer was working its magic. "Okay, I wasn't expecting that. But hurray for having our own inside girl. Go Team Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't respond, as he thought around the pain. He had just learned how deeply he could breathe without the stabbing sensation in his chest. Mary would be useful for certain if they found where Death was hiding. And keeping her safe through it all was paramount.

"She said that if I found Blackwood, I'd find Death. And that I'd always see the river. So let's assume that there is another Blackwood, not just the chemical plant. And since we could see the river from the plant, and Mary said we'd always see it, perhaps there is another Blackwood out there that's on the river as well."

Sherlock struggled, pain fogging his mind. There was something he needed to know. "I couldn't find out who owned the chemical plant. All I could remember was that the owner died twenty years ago. How do I know that? I remember the name, and that the owner died."

"Do you recall when you first learned that?" Violet asked. She had a particular look on her face, brow furrowed in thought. Sherlock caught on quickly; he knew what she was getting at. Find the origination of the memory, and perhaps he could fill in the blanks.

"No, but I will momentarily. I'll be stepping out for a moment…."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and dived past the pain, the weariness, and his fears for John. He went deep, looking for that moment in his life when he had learned about Blackwood. It was there, what he needed to know. He saw a glimmer of it, that memory. It was beckoning to him, and he followed. The streets and buildings of his internal city fell away, and he soared over the rolling green hills of his childhood. He trusted Violet not to disturb him; she had seen him do this many times. Rather like John….

He found himself standing in his parent's kitchen, looking at a very young version of himself reading his father's newspapers at the table. His mother was making breakfast, scolding him absent-mindedly when he dropped a section on the floor. He ignored her, as he usually did, and kept on reading. Sherlock moved through the illusion of his childhood home, coming around behind his younger self.

Sherlock smiled at the Irish Setter hiding under Little Sherlock's chair. Redbeard, his friend, always with him; faithful until his last days. Sherlock grinned as the dog gently beat its stubby tail on the floor, his memory supplying a moment of comfort. The ghost of his long deceased companion wormed his way out from under his young master's chair, and came in answer to the soft whisper of heartache from the grown version. Sherlock reached out, and welcomed the joyous sting of pain as he ran his fingers through the silky fur, felt the soft tongue as Redbeard kissed his hand.

"Hello, old friend. I miss you too." Sherlock said, throat tight with tears he refused to shed. He had cried them all for this animal's passing years ago; he would cry no more. He would remember the good times.

"You should come visit him more often, you know. He gets lonely." Little Sherlock piped up, not lifting his head from the papers on the table. His voice at this age was high and squeaky, and Sherlock winced at the reminder. "Would do you some good, too."

"Ah, but I'm not a child anymore, or so Mycroft keeps reminding me." Grown Sherlock replied, unperturbed that he was speaking to himself. This wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever done, by far. He kept petting his dog, and peered over his own shoulder at the papers on the table.

"Mike is boring." Little Sherlock said, snickering as Mummy glared at him from the stove. "Well, he is."

"Yes, Mike is boring, and he hasn't improved with age either." Grown Sherlock replied, pulling out a chair next to his younger self. Redbeard followed, and rested his head on his master's knee. Sherlock kept on stroking the silky head as he pushed the papers around, smiling at the melting brown eyes of his very first friend.

"You going to ask what you came here to ask? Our John needs us." Little Sherlock finally turned to look at him, and Sherlock was struck by how much he had, and hadn't, changed in all the years since. His hair was wilder as a child, the curls tighter, and going every which way. His eyes were the same. His mother's eyes. It was a gift she had only shared with her youngest, those indescribable eyes of hers.

The illusion of his mother responded to his subconscious, and he looked up as she turned from the stove, throwing him a wink and a smile. He got quite a bit from his mother, though he'd never say so. For all her scatterbrained ways, his mother was a genius. Give her an impossible equation, and she'd solve it faster than most people thought; ask her to drive to town for groceries, or for help in finding a lost jumper before school, and you'd have better chances with the dog. She glared at him as she caught his line of thought. Sherlock realized he was disciplining himself as his mother while sitting in the mind-palace version of his old home while petting the ghost of his dead dog while he got impatient with himself from the seat next to himself.

_Okay, time to focus. I'm starting to confuse myself._

"Blackwood. This is where I first heard the name. Read about the owner dying." Sherlock turned from the illusion of his mother, and focused on his younger self. Little Sherlock was glaring at him, and Grown Sherlock stifled a smile. "I need the whole memory."

"Oh, that memory! I just read all about Blackwood. Here, in the _Times_." Little Sherlock snatched at a paper across the table, and pulled it back to him, imperiously holding it away from Grown Sherlock as he reached for it. "I found it, I'll read it."

"Go on, then." Sherlock waved a hand at himself, and smiled at Redbeard. He forgot how annoying he could be. Little Sherlock glared at him again, and sniffed haughtily. His younger self snapped the paper out straight, sat up in his seat, and began to read aloud.

"_Lord Vincent Charles Milverton, Eighth Earl of Blackwood, was found dead yesterday in the private study of his residence outside London, Blackwood Manor. Authorities are investigating the circumstances of his death, and inside sources are quoted as saying the earl_ _had a history of emotional and mental issues, and there is a suspicion of suicide. He was the sole owner of Blackwood Chemical Treatment and Storage Facility, which is to be closed while the investigation is ongoing."_

"_Lord Blackwood is preceded in death by his second wife, Elise Milverton nee Moriarty. He is survived by his two stepchildren. Due to the circumstances of his passing and the ages of the children, this paper shall not disclose their names."_

Sherlock remembered it all. It struck him in its entirety as a force of nature upon the face of the world. He was the lone tall oak in hot summer fields, as lightning strikes from the heavens. The recollection was powerful, and Sherlock let it fill him up, pull him from his comfortable memories. Little Sherlock gazed back at him, eyes bright in the shared memory.

_I have known for decades…. All this time. I had a clue within me the entire time. The universe never gives me coincidences….And only I can be a big enough idiot not to see it! I must go back now… I am so tired. I'm never this tired here. I never feel exhaustion here…_

The younger version of himself suddenly jumped up from the kitchen table, and whistled for his dog. The rear kitchen door opened of its own accord, and Grown Sherlock watched as he ran out into intensely green fields, his faithful dog yapping at his heels. The light was bright, but didn't hurt his eyes. Every fiber of his being was telling him to step through that door. To follow, and be free in the sun, as he had been as a child. But he couldn't. John needed him.

Sherlock took one last look, around the room he had spent so much of his time in as a child. One last look before he focused on the voice calling to him, with an edge of fear laced with exasperation. He pulled himself away, ignoring the temptation to stay. Back to the world, and the crazy American shouting in his ear.

"Sherlock! Jesus, wake up! Don't make me call Mycroft!" Violet was almost screaming, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him as hard as she dared.

"Violet, you keep shaking me, I'll pass out for real." Sherlock grumbled as he blinked at the single lamp in the room. "I'm fine."

Violet snapped her mouth shut, annoyance and fear fairly obvious on her face. She narrowed her eyes at him, her nose crinkling up exactly as it used to when she was a teenager and he caught her stealing PIN's for pocket cash. Not that he stopped her; she just got annoyed when he caught her.

"We need to find Blackwood Manor." Sherlock said, ignoring the cranky face of his partner in crime. He struggled to sit up, and collapsed when his body reminded him that while his mind might be in fine working order, the rest of him wasn't. There was a different pain in his chest, and Sherlock felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He breathed lightly, and the dizzy spell lessened.

"Ooooohhhkay." Violet drew out the word. "So I shouldn't worry about the fact that I was fairly certain you were dead, just now?"

"What? No, I'm fine. Just had a moment." Sherlock tossed her a look, and she threw up her hands. "Find all of the properties of Lord Vincent Milverton, Eighth Earl of Blackwood. Blackwood Manor. He died nineteen years and ten months ago, suspected suicide. Suspicious circumstances. He was married to a woman named Elise Moriarty, and he had two stepchildren."

"Holy crap. I need to get me one of those mind palaces." Violet forgot all about being worried, and dived for her laptop. Her fingers flew over the keys, and she was doing an admirable job of imitating him at his most focused. "Oh, um Mycroft's people are back in the system, and someone's noticed all the movement. I think they think I'm the crazy chick, or something. They keep trying to track me down, and getting disappointed when they can't."

"I would tell him that it's just us, but that would be playing fair." Sherlock snickered, not really caring that his brother's people were trying to track them. Violet was the best in the world. You only found her if she let you.

"Yeah, I was monitoring Scotland Yard while you were pretending to be dead over there, and everyone is looking for you. Lestrade's called in every single cop this side of the pond."

"Obviously they aren't succeeding." Sherlock murmured, the clicking of the laptop keys soothing. He let his eyes drift shut, and concentrated on breathing as normally as possible.

"Nope, they're failing rather spectacularly. Your brother's boyfriend is cute, by the way. Silver fox thing does it for me." Violet didn't notice Sherlock's look of complete befuddlement, his eyes flying open to lock on the back of her head. "Looks like love really is contagious."

_Lestrade is Mycroft's WHAT?! Sure they're close, I suppose… They did just spend two days in the same bed. Must have just happened. Oww, now my head hurts. Will not think about it, will not think about it….Dammit._

"Explain, please." Sherlock couldn't help himself. He had to ask.

"Yeah, I've got access to the camera feeds for Mycroft's street, the house, and bunker, all of it. Caught a blurry vid of them making out in front of his house before dawn this morning." Violet dropped that nugget of information, still not seeing his face. Sherlock was suddenly wishing for a morphine drip for a whole new set of reasons. "I saved it to my personal 'I told you so' file. I can show you if you wanna see."

"No, thank you. I'm fine." He was certain he never wanted to see that. Ever. "And he had the audacity to judge me for sleeping with John."

"He does that again, I'll beat him up for you. Just like the old days." Violet gave him a cocky grin over her shoulder before she went back to her laptop. A small window popped up in the corner of the screen, and she opened it quickly. "Scotland Yard had no luck finding the boat."

"Not surprised." Sherlock said, not minding as Violet slouched farther down the side of the settee, her head resting on his arm. She drew her legs up, and balanced the laptop precariously on her knees. "Somehow I don't see that helping us out right now."

"Don't you Brits have a registry for all the titled people in this country? Wouldn't that be the fastest way to find Blackwood?" Violet didn't even wait for him to answer, she hopped on the Internet, and suddenly the screen was teeming with websites following the British peerage. "Wow, the sheer amount of people obsessed with you guys is insane. Look at all the anglophiles! This is a goldmine!"

"Blackwood, Blackwood….. Here we go! Yup, that doesn't help. The title went extinct when he died. No heirs." Violet wasn't even paying attention to him; she kept on scrolling, switching windows and clicking on everything. "Looks like property was sold off, including the houses, cars, everything except the chemical plant. It hadn't been run correctly in years, no one wanted it."

"Government condemned the property fifteen years ago." Sherlock whispered, fighting the urge to close his eyes. The entire day had been nothing but pain and worry. He was so tired. "Find Blackwood Manor, it's on the river."

"Sherlock, you're falling asleep." Violet rolled her head back and forth on his forearm, making him blink away the cobwebs. Her shoulder-length jet black hair shone in the low light from the single lamp. "You said you didn't want to sleep."

"Hhhmmm." Sherlock blinked again, and took a deep breath. "Help me up."

"Um, why?"

"Bathroom." He stated. _Not elaborating…_

"Oh, joys. Hope you can handle your business in there, not my area of expertise. This creepy fake house has a bathroom?"

"And a kill room. This once belonged to the Clarence House Cannibal."

"Sweet." Violet snapped shut her laptop, and stood, reaching down for him. "The cannibal isn't going to stop by for tea, is he?"

"Oh no, I caught her years ago."

"Her? Wicked."

* * *

Lestrade was beyond frustrated, beyond depressed. He had returned to Scotland Yard, and been inundated by questions about Donovan. He had been ordered by Mycroft not to reveal her fate, nor that of Molly Hooper and Anthea. The entire operation was to be handled as quietly as possible. He had tried not to give anything away, but he couldn't control the grief that had come over him at the questions from his people. They knew him well enough that they had seen the truth, without him saying a word.

So he had endured the painful outcries, the vows to find the person responsible, the anger and fear. He had let his people vent, and then held hard to his resolve as he ordered them back to work. They couldn't stop Donovan's killer standing around filling sorry for themselves. It was if he had thrown ice water on fighting dogs, so shocked was the room. He had told them what he could, that Sherlock Holmes was on the case, and currently missing. That he was in danger, and for them to solve Sally's murder, they needed to find Holmes.

But then he was rewarded, and made proud. Every one of his people had pulled it together, and sprinted for their desks, the phones, and heading out to follow up leads, no matter how tenuous. Every one of his officer's had jumped back into work, determined to avenge their sister.

Lestrade shut his office door, and rested his head on the back of it. He tried pulling his thoughts away from the knowledge that Sally's desk was less than three feet from the door to his office. It was exactly as she had left it, all those days ago. Her cluttered desk, overrun by files, the long forgotten flower sitting on the corner, the computer humming, pulled up on the case she had been working the day she went missing. She had a pair of high heeled shoes under the desk, one fallen over on its side. Some kind of shiny black leather strappy things. Her bag was sitting open over the back of her chair, one strap fallen from the seatback. Her space was exactly as she had left it, and well warned was anyone who touched it now.

Lestrade had seen it before. When officers died. The desk was always left untouched, a shrine of sorts to the person who had used it. Left as it was the last time he or she were there, to be packed up only after the funeral. To be packed up by him. She had been his officer, his sergeant. Sally had been almost a partner, as much as he was allowed to have with an officer under his command. And she had been very dear to him.

Sally Donovan had been a prickly, snarky, rude, stubborn woman. She had always been quick to judge, but he knew there had been no malice in her heart. She was too stubborn to let go of her initial opinions, and that had hindered her many times on cases. But he had seen in her potential, to be one of the best. He had chosen her out of so many young officers, and did his best to steer her right.

It had taken Sherlock's Fall to finally get through to her. To break her cycle of judge first, learn later. It had been a hard lesson, and one that had taken years for her to absorb. And she would have kept evolving and growing, if not for the cruelty of fate, and a madwoman's blade.

Lestrade bit back a sob, covering his mouth tightly with his hand. He would allow himself no more tears. No more pain, no more lost days crying and bemoaning his helplessness. He would find Sherlock, find Death, and avenge his friend. His Sally. Even if it meant blowing Death's head off himself.

* * *

Sally sat back against the headboard, shifting slightly in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Her head was killing her, the long slash on her neck stinging her as she shifted.

Death had left them all in shock. Her admission to being Jaime Moriarty, sister to the madman Jim Moriarty, had been as devastating as a wrecking ball through the walls of a home. Sally cast a look at Anthea, who was sitting up next to her, cradling her broken arm to her chest.

"So, we're really screwed, aren't we?" Sally murmured to the MI6 agent, biting her lip.

"It's starting to look like it, yes." Anthea whispered back, and Sally caught her eye.

Both women broke out in giggles, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation. They had all been through the trauma of having their deaths faked, without them knowing. They had been kidnapped, their bodies stripped and battered, and left in a cage like animals. And here they were now, in a room together, sharing a single bed, three women and one very angry doctor. Held captive by the epitome of baddies, a Moriarty. _I think that's the definition of screwed for certain!_

John turned around, and Sally started giggling anew at the surprised look on the doctor's face. She could only shrug at him as Anthea broke out in trilling laughter, leaning against her shoulder. Sally couldn't stop laughing, and Molly wasn't helping. She kept looking back and forth between the officer and the agent, her face clearly saying that she was afraid they'd snapped under the pressure of the last few days.

"Hey, it's either laugh, or cry." Sally choked out, and kept on laughing.

* * *

"Sir. We have some news." The new aide said, face blank, posture stiff.

"What? It had better be useful." Mycroft snapped out, perversely pleased when he made the aide stiffen up further.

The bunker had been swept, all traces of Death and blood removed. Mycroft had summoned a new team from headquarters, and sent all of his old aides to be debriefed. Where there was one traitor, there might be more.

"There has been some suspicious activity in the last few hours in the systems. MI6, MI5, the military command networks, Scotland Yard, the Royal Services network, everywhere."

"Explain." This must be Death. She must have an access point somewhere in the system.

"Someone is searching through classified data. We can't see what exactly, as the footprints are being erased almost as soon as we notice them. We are catching glimpses. And most of it appears to be sporadic. If it wasn't for the fact that these areas are all maintained daily, we would almost think it was a malfunction. Our tech experts are suggesting this is actually a person, shifting through classified files."

"A single person? Not a virus or a program?" Mycroft asked, and he felt a tightening in his muscles. He had a vague thought, and a sinking feeling in his gut. Sherlock had escaped from the hospital, and he couldn't have done it on his own. He had been too injured. Someone he trusted had helped him. And now someone was hacking the British Government.

"Yes, sir. And whoever this person is, he or she is the best we've ever seen." The aide said, and his opinion of the skill level of the hacker was clear in his voice.

"I think I know who that would be. Keep watching." Mycroft said, and he waved the aide back to work.

There was only one person in the world who fit the description of 'the best'. And her name was Violet Hunter.

Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and dialed. Whether or not she answered would depend mostly on her mood. But he had to try. He had to know if Sherlock was okay. And he really wanted to know if she had found Death yet.

* * *

Violet was typing, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom door. She was waiting for Sherlock to finish, praying he wouldn't need help in there. She hadn't exaggerated, she had no expertise with men and biological needs. Wanted none, really.

She tilted her head, glad she could hear water running in the sink. He was well enough to wash his hands, at least.

Violet stiffened up as she heard him cough through the door, stilling her fingers over the keyboard. He spit into the sink, and Violet bit her lip. She may not be well versed in medicine, but she had seen his chart, and knew a lung was damaged. It was most likely blood. She just hoped he wouldn't push himself further. She really didn't want to talk to Mycroft Holmes at all.

It was if her thoughts summoned him. Violet pulled her cell out as it started to vibrate, and she squirmed on the hard concrete floor as she saw the caller ID. No one else would be able to see who was calling from that restricted number, but no one else was Violet Hunter.

Violet stared at it, and hit Denied. She would answer only after talking to Sherlock. What she had found while he was in the bathroom was important.

"Your brother is on to us, Sherlock." Violet said over her shoulder, talking through the door. "He just called me."

The door opened, and Violet looked at the pale consulting detective. He was leaning on the doorjamb, hands holding tight. His eyes looked like they were bruised, dark blue and reds surrounding them. He wavered, and Violet feared he might fall. She snapped her laptop shut, and put her cell back. Violet pushed herself up on her feet, and didn't complain when Sherlock draped an arm over her shoulder. She started off slowly for the room with the settee, taking her time.

"Did you answer?" Sherlock asked, his face so pale Violet's heart trembled.

"No, I'll call him back though if you want. I dumped your mobile at the hospital." Violet said, and carefully lowered him down on the dusty cushions of the settee. Sherlock leaned aback, his head lolling over the back cushions.

"I have to tell you something." Sherlock said, and he fixed his diamond bright eyes on her. Violet swallowed nervously, and hugged her laptop to her.

"Okay, go ahead. You're acting like you're about to dump me, so let's hurry up with the bad news." Violet was watching his face, and was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles.

"No, it's good news. Usually the best news. At least I'm assuming it is, I've never had the experience. This time it's just difficult." Sherlock sighed, and pulled something small, white and slim from his pocket. Violet's eyes widened as she recognized it, and Sherlock dropped it on the seat next to him. "Mary Morstan is pregnant with John's baby. That's why she's now on 'Team Sherlock'."

"Holy banana peels on a sidewalk, Batman! That's a trip!" Violet sputtered, then thought past the usual happy baby thoughts. "Oh shit, that's not good. She's on the 'kill on sight list.' Mycroft is gunning for her just as hard as Death."

"Yes, and there is the issue. Mary must live. She wants the baby. John is to be a father, and I know he would want this child too. I love John, with everything that's in me. I want this for him." Sherlock sat up, and she held back from helping him. He would only need help if he reached for her first. "Mycroft and the government will not care at this juncture that Mary is expecting. Acceptable collateral damage. Once we find where Death is, and if we tell Mycroft, we won't be able to stop him from killing Mary as he storms wherever they may be."

"Yeah… and John won't be happy." Violet said. She bit her lip, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He could always read her so well. "I found Blackwood Manor."

Sherlock blinked, and she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Hope.

"Tell me."

"It took so long because it's been passed through so many hands over the last twenty years. Renamed, rezoned, sold and resold. It was bought by its current owner five years ago. It was renamed to Copper Beeches Estate when it was purchased the last time. The new title was processed under the ownership of a Ms. Jaime Brook."

"Jaime Brook? How delightful. Richard Brook was the alias Moriarty used when he was staging my downfall. It seems likely Jaime is his sister."

"I found the estate, it's over an hour away, towards the sea, on the river. There's some Google maps shots of it, and it's pretty damn big. Has a boathouse, too." Violet told him, and she watched as life came back into his face. He now knew where his doctor was, and Sherlock was pulling himself from the depths of his pain.

"John is there." Sherlock made as if to get up, but he grabbed at his side, and fell back panting to the cushions.

"And we so can't get him out of there on our own, sexy. You're not your usual super ninja-detective self, and the only weapon I know how to use is my laptop. And a potato gun, but that's not really relevant."

"Whoever we get to help us has to be trusted not to kill Mary. I know we can trust her. I know we can." Sherlock said, and wiped at his face. "Trouble is, we need someone, and everyone I know is currently damaged by losing a loved one to the younger Moriarty."

Sherlock bit his lip, and Violet moved to sit at his feet. She put her laptop down, and rested her cheek on his knee. She sighed, and just offered him this small measure of comfort that she could give him. Sherlock wasn't one to snuggle, and this was as close to it as she knew he would let her get. So it was with a great jolt of surprise that she felt his hand come to rest on her hair, his fingers drifting through the black shoulder length strands. Violet held back any words, and let him find comfort however he needed.

She felt her cell begin to vibrate again, and with one hand pulled it out, and held it over her head to her favorite sociopath. Sherlock didn't stop petting her hair, just took the cell with his other hand. She felt him drop it on his other knee, and she could feel it vibrate through them as the call went unanswered.

* * *

Sherlock stared at Violet's mobile, the caller ID clearly showing Mycroft's name. His brother had found out who he was with, if not where he was. And Violet was right, eventually he would find them, if they didn't move on.

Sherlock was trapped. He felt a surge of satisfaction, of mad joy, and it battled with frustration. If he was whole and healthy, he would already be on his way to Blackwood Manor. Or whatever it was called now. He would get in, rescue John, and if he could get away with it, kill Moriarty and take Mary with him. If wishes came true, Moriarty would join her brother, and Sherlock would have his doctor back. But wishes were never granted. There was no higher benevolent power listening to prayers, just the universe spinning, and nothing could stop it from moving on.

Sherlock watched as Violet's mobile went quiet, the screen showing two missed calls. He didn't even care that his fingers were still running through her soft hair. She was warm against him, and Sherlock felt a pang in his heart as he realized just how much John Watson had changed him. There had been a time he would have pushed her away, or held himself back until she caught on to how uncomfortable he was. But now, all he wanted was to keep touching her soft black hair, and accept the heat from her. The comfort she offered so easily.

Violet was like him in many ways. Neither of them cared much for laws, the expectations of society. They did as they pleased, and be damned the consequences. But neither of them strayed to depravity. It was much like Sherlock had once told Jim Moriarty. He may be on the side of the angels, but he wasn't one of them. And Violet wasn't either. She had no trouble doing what was needed, despite her running commentary on everything.

"I don't know what to do. This would be made easier if I could talk to Mary….." Sherlock said, and his voice trailed off as he stared at the raven-haired woman at his feet. "Violet?"

"Yeah?" She lifted her head, and looked at him, her chin on his knee.

"Can we talk to Mary?" He asked. "We know where she is."

Violet was confused for all of a second, before her face cleared and she caught on. "Oh my God, yes we can!"

She sat up, and snatched at her laptop on the floor. Opening it, Sherlock watched as she accessed the mobile networks, for London and the surrounding areas. Large maps sprung up, and Sherlock could see the locations for all the towers that serviced the city. On the side, a long list of mobile ID numbers scrolled past, lit up in green and zipping by so quickly Sherlock couldn't differentiate them. Violet plugged in the address of the estate where John was, and located the tower that served it.

"These are the cellphones in the area of Copper Beeches. Or mobiles. Whatever. There's thousands. But I can narrow it down." Violet zoomed them in, and Sherlock saw the little blinking dots of active mobiles in the area around the estate. She weeded out the ones that weren't within a hundred yards of the property, and hundreds of dots blinked off the screen. "These are the mobiles that are all on. If it's turned off, I can try and turn it on, depending on the model. But I've got a feeling that Death and Mary have virgins, mobiles that have clean ID's and they'd have no reason to have them off. In this day and age, everyone has a smartphone, and we all get our news that way. Not having one would be a handicap."

Sherlock said nothing, just waited as she zoomed in further, and she put up a satellite overlay of the property, with a small handful of blinking green dots within the house.

"Okay. There's five smartphones within the house. Three of them are individuals, different makes and models. Different years of manufacture. But two of them are identical. Same manufacturer, same serial batches. They were most likely purchased from the same wholesaler, by the same person."

"Death and Mary." Sherlock said, and Violet looked over her shoulder at him. "They are partners in this, and Death most likely gave her a mobile to use. Mary dumped hers at the park."

"Very likely. Trouble is, who is who? We could dial Death first, and then we're screwed. I don't think anyone has those numbers other than the two of them. And getting an unexplained call would be a signal to dump them."

"Can you see where in the house they are?" Sherlock asked, and Violet nodded.

"Yeah, give me a minute. I can find out their specific locations to within a few yards."

In less than thirty seconds, Violet had the two matching mobiles blinking alone on the screen. They were within yards of each other, in the same room.

"Well, shit. Looks like we wait, and then guess on who to call." Violet muttered, and slouched back against his knee.

"I never guess. We wait, and I'll tell you which one to call once they separate." Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the dots. "Change the caller ID on your mobile to my name."

"I hope you pick right, cuz if the psycho Moriarty answers, you're doing the talking."

* * *

Death looked at her men, and each one met her eyes without fear. They weren't built for it, these select few.

"You all understand what this means." Death asked them. Making sure to hold their gaze, each man individually. One by one they nodded, and she was satisfied.

"Once the countdown has started, you will know that I am past protecting. All that will remain is that you fulfill your duties."

"We understand, my lady." Said her bodyguard. Death looked him in the eye, and smiled. He had been with her the longest, and his diligence was why he was chosen.

"It will be over soon. For all of us." Death nodded to her chosen, and they filed out of the ballroom.

* * *

Mary knew she was in trouble. So much trouble she didn't see a way out. She wasn't being held captive or anything, Death had been clear that she could leave at any time. But she couldn't leave, not now. She couldn't leave, and let the father of her child be burned alive. And she was very good, but she couldn't break four hostages out of this place without help.

Mary sat on top of one of the long tables in the ballroom, watching Death and her men on the far side of the room. She had forty mercenaries and para-military men under her command. Death had recruited them directly, by rescuing them from Sherlock and MI6 in the last two years. She had crisscrossed the entirety of the Continent and further abroad to destroy evidence that linked Moriarty in any way to Lord Moran and his wife. Along the way, she had carefully culled the best from the lot, and left the rest to be slain or arrested. Sherlock had indeed destroyed Moriarty's network, but he hadn't gotten them all. The favored few had escaped and were all in this room. And as a result of Death's actions, every man was devoutly loyal to her.

Even when she was at her most ruthless, Death inspired in her men absolute loyalty. Her slaying of the failed guard and the traitor at the bunker had been met with approval, not censure. Her men sat and stood in a large semi-circle around their mistress, lounging on large crates and boxes. Death was explaining last minute mission details, and assigning any changed roles. Mary knew from the men's posture and the way they moved that they held Death in high esteem. They would die for her, without hesitation. Some of them already had. And a great many of them would be dead in the next few hours.

Mary couldn't hear all of it, but that was fine. Death had filled her in on all of it hours ago, and Mary found herself shocked that she hadn't felt regret and dismay until now. Death was literally going to set fire to the world. Forty men and one woman. Who were about to set London on fire, and destroy any chance Mary might have at a future. One that didn't involve a bullet in the brainpan or four concrete walls.

Mary dragged in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. She had to calm herself. She hadn't been this bad off emotionally until she learned that she was… in trouble.

_Anger and love makes fools of us all. I should have stayed true to my training, and avoided both. But if I had, I wouldn't be… I can't even think the word! I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant with John's baby. I never thought to hope for this, never thought it through. I am a fool. Such carelessness is beneath me._

_But I was happy. So happy. I love him, I wanted him, I had him….. John. I saw my life laid out before me, full of happiness and potential. And all I had wanted when I escaped my old life was peace. A chance to be myself, and never have to pull a trigger again. Dreams, all of it. _

_I was so angry when he left. He didn't just dump me, he yanked away the happiness I had found. The chance to live fully. And I reacted as I would have years ago, and not as I should have reacted as Mary Morstan. Though none of this matters, as Magnussen knew who I was, and the second he couldn't use me, he sold me out. When John left me, the connection from me to him to the Holmes brothers broke. I would have had to run anyway. And I'd still be pregnant, and in trouble. But I would have had someone to help me…. John and Sherlock both would have helped me. I know they would have. John wouldn't let his anger at my lies keep him from helping me. And Sherlock would help because he would do anything for John._

_Pride, anger, spurned love, all of it played a part. But I made all of my own decisions, and I deserve what's coming. I deserve it, but my baby doesn't. My baby… Dear God, help me please…_

Mary felt her hands lace together over her belly, as if the thought of her baby being hurt made her body react on its own. So strong was the urge to run, to get as far away from danger as possible, that Mary nearly fund herself leaping from the table. She reined herself in, schooling her features back to a mask of perfect indifference. No one could know she was wavering. And she knew, with every cell in her body saying a stark truth in chorus. That she would be unable to look in the eyes of her future child and not feel wretched regret for leaving its father to die.

_Ruing my decisions is a waste of time. Regret wastes energy. All I can do now is keep things from getting worse. Hurry, Sherlock. I have a feeling the fires are about to begin. _

Mary watched as Death ended the briefing, and over two thirds of her men left the ballroom. They were heading back in to the city, and once Death sent them the signal, it would begin. There was maybe ten to twelve men left here at the compound. The rest were all leaving, back to their assigned positions. They were to guard the firebombs. In case Sherlock or Mycroft caught on to what was happening. London really was going to burn.

"Mary, there you are, dear." Death called to her. Mary hopped off the table, and met her halfway down its length. "I have something for you. My boys brought it back with them while out running my errands."

Death dropped a black box in her hands, and Mary stared at the unexpected gift.

"A present? And I didn't get you anything."

"They brought back my present as well, no worries dear. I'll be waiting on using mine until the final stage starts."

Mary opened the box, and what she saw left her dumbfounded. Passports, ID cards, birth certificates, alias workups, all neatly stacked up, and wrapped in a red ribbon. Death reached in the box as Mary just stared, and untied the ribbon from the documents. Her delicate fingers sorted through until she came to a dark blue passport, brightly embossed with the golden eagle of Mary's homeland. She pulled it out, and opened it to the information page.

There was a name next to her picture, a name she hadn't been called since she was seventeen. A seventeen year old girl cornered by shadowy government spooks who were hunting for damaged children to train.

"In case you wish to go home." Death said, as Mary blinked back sudden tears. "It may be too dangerous, perhaps for the rest of your life, but if the opportunity arises…." Her tears flowed over, and Mary had to let Death take the box from her as she lost her grip. Mary found herself weeping, her emotions out of her control.

Death's arms wrapped around her, and Mary cried on her shoulder. _Amelia…._ _I never thought to have that name again. They stripped it from me, took it from me years ago…_

"It isn't a perfect match to the one you were born with, as that would draw attention, but perhaps it is close enough." Death murmured in her ear. Her arms were tight, and Mary didn't care. This creature had pulled off a miracle, and Mary knew better than to spurn it. "All the separate aliases are real, exact, and clean. No one will find you with these. All you have to do is avoid facial recog."

"I can do that." Mary choked out, laughter mixing with her sobs. She lifted her head, and wiped away the tears. Her face was sore, but she didn't care. She had options now, more than she had five minutes ago. All she needed to do was save John, and she could go. Have a baby, have a life. Be free, and find peace again. "Thank you."

_I can't stay in London. Not after what I've done. I'm sorry John, maybe one day I can come back… Let you meet your child. You would be the best father in the world…_

"Enough tears, Mary. Soon this will be over. I promised you a new start, and the means to end the threat Magnussen posed. I have fulfilled my promise. And you fulfilled yours. And in a most spectacular fashion, too." Death rubbed her shoulders, and picked the box back up from the table. She put the top back on it, and handed it over to Mary. "If you wish to leave, you may. I'll have my men take you anywhere you want."

"Leave?" Mary gasped out, hands clutching the box to her chest. She was incredulous; Death really was willing to let her walk out of here. A part of her had been expecting Death to kill her, or at the very least, hold her until her own mission was over. "Now?"

"Well, if you choose to stay, I will not turn you away." Death said quietly, her dark eyes watching Mary's carefully. Her face was unguarded, and the madness was quiet, slumbering. She looked like a normal young woman, who was waiting on an important decision. As if the answer mattered.

A change was spreading across Death's features. Mary saw no trace of anger, no pain, the evil exorcised from the young woman before her. It was as if every other incarnation of her was the lie, and Mary was seeing the truth.

Mary felt a small part of her heart ache at the waste of potential she saw in front of her. The things Death would have been capable of if she had found a different path were impossible to fathom. Who she would have been was just a lost dream, now. It was a regret that disappeared as soon as she thought it. Death was as she should be. Forged by love, loss and grief.

"I'll stay. I have no place to be right now." Mary said, and watched as Death's shoulders loosened, and she relaxed. Mary couldn't leave yet. Not while John and his friends were still here. And this young woman had a hold on Mary's heart, despite the evil that simmered in her soul. Mary had a brief flash of herself standing on the edge of a great fire, her hand reaching out to a wraith being consumed in the depths…

"What's your real name, Death?" Mary whispered to the woman in front of her, who was so near Mary felt her body heat in the cool room. In their profession it was beyond impolite to ask, but Mary couldn't stop herself. "I know it's not Sybil."

"You didn't hear earlier? When you drew your weapon on John?" Death whispered just as quietly. "I told them, and everyone got very upset."

"I won't. Tell me." Mary asked, her eyes searching the younger woman's. There was an actual emotion in them, hidden. Something that wasn't rage or madness. Mary needed to know.

Death broke eye contact, her face flushing slightly with color. As if she didn't believe Mary would be able to handle it. She seemed to ponder the odds, and slowly raised her head. Her voice was low, but even. There was nothing in it of the evil she could conjure at will.

"Jaime Moriarty."

Mary sucked in air in surprise, as the younger woman flinched slightly, eyes clearly expecting a harsh reaction. _She's a Moriarty? Oh Dear God, no wonder…_

"You're his sister." Mary whispered, and she felt a river of awe, unease, and strangely, satisfaction race down her spine. The mental image of this marvelous creature of death and destruction suddenly crystalized, and every question of how she was capable of being so very talented was answered. Mary had once thought that Death had been born disconnected from her soul, to be as good as she was. It was more than that. She had been born to be this way. She wasn't born wrong; she was as nature intended.

Mary couldn't help herself. She lifted a hand, and brought it to the younger woman's jaw, and traced the fine bones, the elegant lines of her face.

"Are all of you so magnificent?" Mary asked. Her fingers stilled on the perfect cheekbone, skin unblemished and smooth under her fingertips.

_I'm standing next to perfection. She was born to be as she is. Whatever sent her down this path was destined to happen. Am I just as dark as she, that I appreciate her for what she is? The lives she's taken, the blood she's spilled, none of that bothers me. But I am not one to be bothered by blood. Nor death. Look at us both, the assassins with hearts, who bleed for the men who left us…. The heart that now beats beneath mine is all that keeps me from becoming her….._

"I am nothing compared to what he was." Jaime said, her face bemused as Mary pulled her fingers away slowly.

"I never met him. All that I know is from John." Mary said, and she fought not to flinch as she said his name. "Sorry, he did tell me a lot."

"Most likely all of it accurate." Jaime said, and she moved back. Reluctantly, slowly. "He was everything to me."

"So I've seen. Forgive me, I assumed that you and he were….." Mary let her voice trail off, as she caught the glitter of merriment in the dark eyes of this young Moriarty.

"On purpose, trust me. Harder for people to track us as we grew up." Jaime said, and jumped up on the table, much as Mary had been sitting earlier. "Many times we would split up, go our own ways for several months, but we would work our way back to each other. James had his distractions, I had my missions."

Mary raised her brows in surprise. This version of Death was charming, accessible, and seemingly sane. And it made her curious, and cautious. _No, not Death. Jaime._

_Can she see reason? Can she be turned aside? She cannot be saved, but can she be stopped?_

"Tell me about him." Mary asked, resting her hip on the table next to Jaime's legs. "The world saw him as a monster."

"And so he was." Jaime looked down at her, and grinned at the look on Mary's face. "We are both of us monsters. Of course we are. What else would you get, with two small children being raised by one?"

"What?" Mary whispered. She had a feeling she knew. She didn't want to hear this, but she couldn't look away…..

"Our stepfather was an alcoholic, abusive, wife-beating, child molesting monster." Jaime told her, and Mary fought the urge to place a protective hand over her stomach. "We were left on our own after our mother died from too many beatings. He had a fondness for young girls, and we endured his abuse for five years. In this house. Alone."

"Dear God…" Mary felt sick. Jaime looked in her eyes, and Mary saw nothing she expected in there. There was no pain, no fear, and no shame.

"There is no God." Jaime said. "There are those who cause pain, and those who are hurt. We stopped being victims. We took what we learned by surviving Blackwood, and chose to live as we wished. So we became monsters, and we flourished. Different set of standards, of course. But monsters all the same."

"How did you get away? Though I have a feeling you didn't escape as much as stop him."

"I killed him." Said so calmly. Without fear of judgment. "James staged his death as a suicide after I killed him. I choked him with his own tie. We then took every asset we could, and raised ourselves from that point on."

"What? How old were you?" Mary was finding this hard to believe.

"I was nearly ten, James was twelve." Jaime laughed at the look on Mary's face. She had given up trying not to be shocked. "James had already killed a boy at his school, so it was easy."

"Carl Powers?" Mary breathed, remembering from John's blog, and the stories he'd tell her of Sherlock's cases.

"Yes. The little snot was harassing James. He stopped." Jaime grinned, and kicked her feet back and forth like a child on a swing.

"Oh." What else could she say?

Jaime jumped down from the table, and darted in quickly, kissing Mary on the lips before pulling away just as fast. Mary had barely registered the soft touch of her lips before she was gone.

"It's dinner time for our guests, Mary. And then I'll be waiting for Holmes to start the show. The end is almost here." Jaime slowly morphed back into Death before her eyes, the charming woman-child without guilt and shame fading back to the heartless maniacal monster bent on revenge. Mary found herself missing the young Moriarty, she was refreshingly real. True to who she was, without agenda. Unburdened by the deadly purpose to end her life for man who left her alone.

Death gave her a smile tight smile, and walked back down towards her remaining guards, presumably to send someone out for food. People had to eat while waiting to die.

"Wait." Mary called, still standing where Death had left her. She stopped and turned her head, one brow raised in question.

"Can I call you Jaime?" Mary couldn't believe she was asking. Anything to bring the real girl back. Even if she was insane in all her incarnations, Jaime was worth saving, more so than the mercurial Death.

Death was surprised, the first time Mary had ever seen her without complete control. Mary held her breath as the younger woman looked at her, as if trying to see her heart.

"Only you." Jaime Moriarty smiled at her companion. She paused, and Mary was finding herself holding her breath as the younger woman stared at her.

"The final stage will happen once Holmes figures out where we are. We will have short warning before he comes. I'll be moving the women to the boathouse after they start this way, so that they will not be in range. Dr Watson will stay with me. You will have to run at the same time, unless you chose to burn with us all here at the house."

Mary shuddered at the look in Jaime's eyes. Her willingness to die. The desire to die.

"You don't have to die, Jaime." Mary dared.

"But I want to, Mary." Jaime replied, her sweet voice clear. "He left me behind, and went to where I cannot follow. At least, not empty handed. I'll finish what he started."

* * *

Mary carried the bags of food from the nearby deli down the hall to where Jaime was holding her prisoners. Two guards stood outside the room, and she nodded to them to open the door. The larger of the two unsnapped his firearm while the other unlocked the door. Mary was armed as well, though she knew John wouldn't try anything, not with the women as injured as they were.

She walked in as the door opened, and Mary ignored the glares from the women sitting on the bed. John was back at the window, and the look on his face was enough to make her flinch. But she didn't, well aware of the guards in the hall. She turned to them and nodded for them to close the door.

"Dr Watson will behave. I'll be fine." The guards looked at her for a brief moment, and the other drew his weapon as well. She wasn't worried. The guards closed the door, and locked it, and Mary knew she would only have few minutes before they opened it to check on her.

Mary dropped the bags on the bed, and waved a hand at the women.

"Go ahead. It's safe. I already ate." Mary held back a smile at the grumbles she got, but since they knew they were only alive because of her, Mary knew they'd eat.

Molly was the first to move, and she snatched up the nearest bag. Molly opened it, and Mary grinned at the look on the younger woman's face. Best damn sandwiches in the city. Somehow Mary wasn't surprised that Jaime knew about it.

"Why are you here?" John asked quietly. Mary didn't look at him, her hands at her sides. She put her fingers on his gun, the one on her thigh. She had seen it on the table the evening before, when everyone was checking in their gear from the assaults on the clinic and Mycroft Holmes' house.

Jaime had seen her take it, but she had grinned when Mary said it only seemed right she got to use his weapon. Would serve him right if she shot him with it. Only a part of that had been a lie. Mary was still very mad and hurt by John Watson, but she had to put that aside. She was carrying his baby, and there must be some way to fix this colossal mess. Sherlock had to hurry. And he had to be subtle about it. If he could get here without Jaime knowing, they may yet save everyone's life. And London too.

"I'm here because the world is about to burn, and me along with it." Mary told him, finally looking him in the eyes. She ignored the women on the bed as they ate, well aware they were watching, and not caring.

"You helped her do all of this." John said, and he stepped towards her. He was angry, and Mary watched him throttle his anger back. "You deserve to burn."

"No argument from me, John. But my circumstances have changed." Mary refused to elaborate. She couldn't. He wouldn't believe her. He would see it as nothing but a trick, the means by which to further insure his compliance. "Just behave John, and you might get out of this alive. We all might."

"What the hell do you mean? Mycroft and Sherlock will eventually find us, and there's nothing to stop them from killing everyone here. You included."

"I know." Mary met his eyes, and she saw his confusion at her behavior. "I have to go. I'll be back soon."

John didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. She knew he didn't want to see her again. She stepped towards the door, preparing to knock. That's when she felt it. Her pocket was vibrating. It was the mobile that Jaime had given her.

_Why is it ringing? What is going on? If she needed me, she wouldn't call, she'd use the radio, have a guard get me._

Mary pulled it from her pocket, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the name on the caller ID.

Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh thank you God." Mary fumbled with the mobile, and turned to face John. He was affixed by the look of shock and nerves on her face, and she almost dropped the mobile trying to answer it.

"Hello?" Mary asked, voice breaking.

"Hello, Mary." His deep voice came clearly across the line, and Mary felt tears prick at her eyes. She brought a hand to her face, and tried to calm herself.

"What took you so long?" She asked, and moved away from the door. She grabbed John's arm, and dragged him away from the door too. He was so distracted by the look on her face that he didn't protest.

"Well, I was shot by an angry American assassin, and I had to escape my meddling brother. You know, busy as a bee."

"Oh shut it. Does this mean you're coming to the rescue?" John straightened up at those words, and made to speak. She slapped her hand over his mouth, and cast her eyes at the door. The women on the bed had stopped eating, arrested by the woman on the phone. John glared at her over her hand, but he relaxed. She dropped her hand away.

"That depends. I need to know what's going on." Sherlock said, his voice as calm and deep as always, but she could hear the distrust in his voice. She knew one way to clear up any residual distrust at this point, for everyone.

Mary choked back her reply as the knock came at the door. "Hold on." She whispered, and put the call on Hold. She tucked it in her pocket, and met John's eyes. "Say nothing."

Mary went to the door, and tapped lightly. It popped open almost immediately, and Mary looked in the eyes of the guard holding it.

"Dr Watson has requested some more medical supplies for treating the prisoners. I need one of you to go get a fresh kit. Make sure you remove the dangerous items. I'll stay here until you get back." Mary tugged the door shut, and held her breath. She heard murmuring, and she knew it had worked when the lock snapped on the door and a single set of footprints walked down the hall. The other guard moved so he was in full view of the door, which meant he had to move away to see it clearly.

Mary leapt away from the door, and plucked the mobile from her pocket. She took it off of Hold, and threw it on speaker.

"Sherlock, John's here, and you have to stay quiet. I bought us a few minutes." Mary said.

No matter how mad she may be, how heartbroken, scorned and ashamed she might feel, the look of joy and disbelief on John's face was something she'd never forget. It broke her heart all over again.

"John?" Sherlock's voice whispered out from the mobile's speakers.


	32. It's Not Fun Unless Something Burns

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Serious violence, mentions of child abuse, and bombings.**

**A/N: I changed some of the geography of London to accommodate the story. I know my locations are fictional and that I changed where some of these places are. **

**Read, enjoy, review. And I apologize in advance for the tears and abused feels.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Two**

"_**It's Not Fun Unless Something Burns"**_

**Nineteen Years and Ten Months Ago….. Blackwood Manor**

Jaime stood sniffling over Blackwood's body, her fingers cramping and burning from the silk tie wrapped so tightly around them. She felt silly for crying, she really did. Jimmy never cried.

Jaime struggled to free her fingers, sobbing quietly as the limp body at her feet moved in response to her frantic tugs. She had pulled too hard at the end, and now she was stuck. It had been easier than she thought it was going to be. She had practiced and practiced, destroying teddy bear after teddy bear to get the move right. But she hadn't accounted on her fingers getting stuck.

_Run forward, grip tie with both hands, jump up and spin over shoulder, drop body to floor with my weight. Pull. Runforward, jumpup, griptiewithbothhands, spinovershoulder, …. Don't stop pulling…._

Jimmy's instructions ran through her head, over and over. Jimmy. She had to get her fingers free. So she could free Jimmy. Blackwood always locked him in his room when he came home from school, so Jimmy couldn't stop him. But Jimmy had stopped Blackwood. Jimmy taught Jaime how to do it. She saved herself this time. It was the first time she had fought back, and she won.

Jaime tore at the tie, and it came free, tearing her already raw skin as it unraveled from her fingers. She fell to her knees, hitting the still warm body with her hands. She shook, and pushed away. It was nothing now, just a bag of bone and blood, limp muscles. Jimmy had told her to come get him as soon as Blackwood was dead. She had to get the keys.

Jaime bit her lip, and snuck a small hand into the pocket closest to her. The pocket wasn't too tight, and she felt the cold steel keys with her fingertips. She steeled herself one last time, and snatched the house keys from the corpse's pocket. She pulled back so fast that she fell on her rear, and crab walked away from the dead monster.

Jaime shot to her feet, and ran for the door. Blackwood always locked the door when he was going to hurt her. She unlocked it, and peeked in the hallway. The night was dark, the stars brilliantly visible though the wide windows that lined the wall opposite the study. No one there. Jimmy had been very specific. No one could see her in the hall, and she must close the door and lock it behind her, so that no one would see the body before Jimmy did. The staff usually left around this time anyway, but he had warned her to be careful.

Jaime darted out quickly, and shut the door. She locked it with the keys in her tiny hands, and sprinted down the hall, running silently. She made no noise as she took the stairs two at a time, running past the second floor, all the way up to the bedrooms on the third level. She paused at the landing, peeking over the top. No one was in the hall. She ran the last few steps, and ran all out for Jimmy's room.

She nearly dropped the keys in her excitement and nerves, and she heard Jimmy jump off his bed and come to the door. She unlocked it, and stood in the pool of light from his room, shaking and breathing hard. She looked in her big brother's face, and she saw him run his eyes over her, taking in her injury-free state, the keys, and the giant grin on her face. An answering smile broke across his face, and her big brother reached out, and hauled her against his thin chest in a massive hug.

"I always said you were very brave." Jimmy whispered in her ear. She hugged him tighter in response, and she cried her last tears into his shirt. She didn't mind when he took the keys from her hand, she just held him. He held her back, his chin resting in her red-brown curls.

Jaime squeezed him hard one last time and pulled back. "I did it exactly like you told me too. He died in one minute, twenty seconds."

"Good job. I knew you could do it." Jimmy let go of her, and ran for his closet. "Watch in the hallway, Jaime. Make sure no one is coming."

Jaime turned around, and hid against the doorway, peeking down the hall in both direction. She could hear Jimmy grabbing the rope from his closet, and he slung it over his shoulder as he joined her at the door.

"It's clear, no one." Jaime whispered, and she jumped in surprise as Jimmy took off at a run down the hall and down the stairs. She tore after him, silent despite her speed.

Jimmy paused for a second on each landing, making sure the way was clear before he went down to the next level.

Jimmy checked that the long hall was empty, and he ran for the study door. She was right behind him, and she snuck through in his wake as he opened it, and shut it just as quickly. He threw the lock, and went straight to the body.

Jaime stayed by the door, in the exact spot he had pointed to. It was Jimmy's turn now. Jaime watched as Jimmy unraveled the thick brown rope, and his hands flying, tied the large noose at the end.

Jaime looked on in awe as her older brother staged Blackwood's death as a suicide. He was really very smart, and Jaime had a distant recollection of hearing her Mummy say that once upon a time.

She wasn't scared anymore. Blackwood was gone. Jimmy would always take care of her.

* * *

"John?" Sherlock held Violet's mobile tighter to his ear, and sat up so sharply he began to cry silent tears at the pain. He didn't notice the pain or the tears. He heard the voice of the one he needed more than he needed air in his lungs, more than he needed food in his body. John. His John.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was disbelieving, incredulous.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, and Violet spun around on the floor, a wide smile breaking across her lovely face. Sherlock didn't see, so focused was he on the sound of John's voice. John's voice swept through him, his nerves on fire, joy and love singing in every inch of his being.

"I'm fine, please tell me this means a security team is minutes away from blasting down the doors and getting us out of here."

"No, not really. I'm in hiding with my personal hacker, and we only just learned where you were. I figured it was safe to call this number, as I deduced it was Mary."

"How did you….. Never mind. Are you okay?" The worry in John's voice was clear, and Sherlock grinned. Always wanting to take care of him, his doctor.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said. He wasn't really, but this didn't count as a lie. He was still functional. Fine enough.

"You too are adorable, really. Sherlock, we have a serious problem." Mary's voice came through just as clear, and Sherlock tensed.

"Go ahead, Mary."

"Death has bombs placed throughout London. She has them spread all over. There's over ten for certain that I saw, maybe an even dozen. I don't know where. The only thing she told me was that they were in places important to James. Places where you two had confrontations, or he did something."

"Violet, bring up maps of London. Plot everywhere we have record of Moriarty being, and every place he and I had confrontations. I'll fill in the rest once you're done." Sherlock told the girl at his feet, and she snapped out of her happy daze, and attacked her laptop. She was as fast as he could wish, and Sherlock found himself thankful that he had decided to have that first dance with her all those years ago.

"Violet? The American girl Mycroft called?" John asked over the mobile.

"Yes, Violet is here, you two can meet later." Sherlock said, and tried to calm his racing heart. Violet waved one handed at the mobile in his hand, and Sherlock laughed. His John was alive. John was fine. "She says hi."

"Sherlock, shut up! I need to tell you the rest." Mary was impatient, and Sherlock could hear it making her voice crack in stress.

"Go on then."

"She knows somehow, some way, what Mycroft and his people are doing. Same with Lestrade. I'd say it was more traitors, but it is most likely spotters. She'll know within minutes once you send people this way. She's going to activate the bombs once she knows you're coming. That's not the scary part. The scary part is she's planning on burning London. The only way to save it will be to kill her, John, and yourself."

* * *

Jaime Moriarty stood in the ballroom, perusing the crates laid out around the room. They were all ready, every last one. She gently shut the lid of the large crate nestled up next to the empty cage, and sighed. She had trouble with patience, she truly did. Sherlock needed to hurry up. He really was taking his time figuring out where she was. _Did I make it too hard? Thought it would've been obvious from the way I destroyed what was left of the chemical plant._

"My lady? It's ready for you." One of her men said, holding her present in his hands.

"Finally." Jaime said, and without hesitation, pulled off her shirt. She had on a bra, but it covered very little. She had no problem standing half naked in front of her guards, and walked over to the one holding her present.

"Do it quickly. Make sure not to hesitate, the sensors have to be exactly on target for this to work." Jaime ordered.

Her bodyguard went pale, and looked down at the two long, very slim spikes in his hands. He looked back at the lithe form of his mistress, and paled further. He looked back down at his hand. The spikes were very sharp, and had a tiny hook on the end near the tip, so they couldn't be pulled out. Similar to acupuncture needles, but were twice the diameter. Sturdier. They were over two inches long, and at the end, foot long black wires that ended in plugins, where they would attach to the rest of her present.

"My lady, I ….." He stammered, and Jaime rolled her eyes. She growled in frustration, and grabbed both needles from his shaking hand.

Jaime took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on a distant point, and let all the air out of her lungs. As her chest went down, and as the air left her fully, she plunged the needles deep in to her chest, directly over her heart. She did it at an angle, so the ends would lay flush with her body and not stick out. She didn't react at all to the pain. It was intense, and she felt the delicious tingle all the way down to her toes.

Jaime pulled her hand away slowly, ignoring the blood on her fingers, and dripping from the two impact sites. Her aim had been true. She had aimed between her ribs, and she hadn't missed. She could feel the barbed tips deep in her chest, just above her heart. She pulled in a deep breath, and felt the tugging sensation that meant the sensors were fully seated. She would not be able to rip them out by mistake.

"Give me the rest." She ordered, and her man shook himself out of his shock, and picked up a metal harness from the table next to them. It wasn't solid metal. It closely resembled the top half of a climbing harness, but made of stainless steel and titanium links, and carried a slim electronic device in a metal cage. Wires wove through the links, around the entire harness, no link spared. They all connected to the slim flat device in the metal bracket. The tiny computer with its display and touchpad was lightweight, and about the size of her palm, and damn near indestructible within the fine bars.

Jaime shrugged it over her shoulders, not minding the tightness or the weight. One strap of metal went over each shoulder, connected near her bra strap in the back, and wove around her front, under her breasts, high on her stomach. She connected the buckles, securely seating the wire connections. The transmitter and receiver concealed within the slim tablet-like device in the bracket beeped as it sensed the connections. It rested flat on her torso, just under her breasts. The whole ensemble was tight, and very fitting. It would be noticeable under a very tight shirt, but it would not hinder her in any way. She had full movement, and she had no trouble ignoring the pain from the spikes. She wouldn't be wearing it for long anyway.

She grabbed the wires running from the spikes in her chest, and wove them through the chain strap over her left shoulder, down her side, and plugged them into the computer. She heard the beep again, and looked to her man.

"The readout says all connections are at one hundred percent, my lady. It's activated."

"Good. Go, double check that all the party favors are ready." She ordered. She ran her fingers over the thin metal cage that protected the tablet, just enough room for her fingers to fit through to enter her codes to begin her show. She pondered what the failsafe should be. She knew better than to assume the device couldn't be accidentally activated. Many people had been slain by such foolish mistakes, and she had no intention of starting anything until she was ready.

_What should it be? It shouldn't be something easy for anyone to guess. If I get disabled without dying, Sherlock would have a chance to disarm it. So something no one would guess. Something that isn't known to be connected to me or James, but something I know well. Something I care about? What do I care about? James is gone, but that's far too obvious… Ah. I know._

_Perfect. Just the thing._

Jaime smiled as she typed in the failsafe, giggling gently as she did so. The device beeped happily again, and Death started to laugh. All she was waiting on now was Sherlock Holmes. And she knew he would come. It wouldn't be his brother, or the police. It would be him, because she had his heart. She had the one he loved beyond all others.

Jaime grabbed her shirt, and pulled it back over her head. It snagged on the metal harness, but she straightened it out easily. She could just see the sensors, and the blood on her chest near the low bust line of her shirt. The blood had stopped, and was smeared across her chest.

Jaime felt a vibration, and paused, a part of her thinking she accidentally activated the device. But the vibration wasn't coming from her chest, it was her pocket. Jaime's brow crinkled in confusion, and she pulled out her mobile, and looked at the screen. It was her usage alert, to be activated whenever Mary was using her mobile. She was speaking to someone.

"Oh Mary." She whispered, and felt for the first time in a long time a thread of pain that wasn't connected to her grief. "You should have left me when you had the chance."

Jaime lifted her head, and let the pain of betrayal be drowned out by her rage. No more mistakes. Human error would not be her downfall. It was time to begin. Sherlock would not be able to stop her now.

She ran to the nearest table, and grabbed two handguns from the assortment laid out. She ran from the room. She knew without a doubt what Mary Morstan was doing, and where she was.

* * *

John was watching Mary is disbelief. She had swiftly changed yet again, from the cold-blooded assassin from earlier, to this woman who spilled secrets that left him cold. The relief in her voice as Sherlock called her was unmistakable. Whatever it was that made Mary change sides must be significant.

"I'm not going to kill myself, or John. Her, yes." Sherlock said over the mobile John held in his hand, and John watched as Mary shook her head in frustration.

"Sherlock, you won't be able to stop her. She has an altered dead man's switch. Built into a harness. It's run by her heartbeat. As long as her heart beats, London burns. Once her heart stops, the London bombs stop going off. But once she dies, the manor we're in now is going up in flames."

"What?" John gasped out, incredulous. "She's insane!"

"Yes John, that's been obvious." Sherlock said, and John waited anxiously for his detective to speak up. "Well, can you two get out of there now? Mary, I am assuming you're armed, between the two of you, you should manage an escape. I can send some of my homeless network to meet you someplace nearby."

John felt a crazy sense of joy and frustration. Sherlock didn't know, of course he didn't know.

"Sherlock, it's not just the two of us. The girls are alive, we're here with them now." John said, and he didn't bother hiding his joy at being able to say those words. Molly, Anthea, and Sally had moved to the edge of the bed, and Molly was crying quietly in her hands.

"What?" John had never truly heard Sherlock shocked to such a degree, and John snaked out a hand and pulled Molly to her feet. He smiled at her, and motioned for her to speak.

"Sherlock? It's Molly. I'm okay." Molly sobbed, and she kept crying, happy to let Sherlock know that she wasn't dead. "I'm so sorry you thought we were dead. She tricked us."

There was nothing, but for the sound of an open line. John heard a shuffle, and suddenly there was the sound of another voice over the line.

"John? Hey sexy, it's Violet. You just shocked the shit outta my pal here. You've done the impossible, Sherlock Holmes is speechless."

"Violet, hello. He okay?" John asked. Nothing for a minute, and he heard a coughing sound come over the line.

"Yup, he's now gesturing at me to relinquish the phone. That didn't last long. Here ya go."

"John, can you get everyone out?" Sherlock demanded, sounding better than he had in days. Sherlock had life in his voice again.

"Um, Anthea and Donovan are hurt. Anthea really shouldn't be doing anything strenuous like escaping, and while Donovan is relatively intact, she's got a serious concussion. And we have one gun against a few dozen." John told his lover, frustrated.

"So an escape at this point isn't feasible. That means a rescue." Sherlock said. "But as soon as we make a move to where you are, Death will know."

"Jaime said that she would move the girls to the boathouse on the river, so she would keep her promise to me that she not kill them. She's expecting me to leave at the same time. John's going to be here with her, waiting on you."

"Jaime is her name then." Sherlock said. "I was right. She is his sister."

"Yes, she is." Mary confirmed, and John could almost see the smug satisfaction emanating from Sherlock over the open line.

"The only way we stop London from burning is to get there without her knowing. I can get Mycroft involved, have him pull in resources from outside the city. Use teams from other parts of the country."

John didn't have time to answer. Mary suddenly froze, her head whipping towards the door. John heard it a second later. The sound of someone running hard down the hall. Mary's face went white, and she went for the gun on her thigh.

"She's coming! Sherlock, it's too late!" Mary gasped out.

The door burst open, so hard that part of it broke off at the handle and went flying into the room. Death erupted in the room, so fast she was a blur of motion. Mary hadn't even cleared the holster with her gun before Death was spinning on one foot, the other lashing out in a lightning fast kick that caught Mary in the chest, knocking her off her feet and into the wall, the gun falling to the floor. John dropped the mobile and dived for the gun, managing to grab it.

Death dropped and continued her forward motion, rolling towards him as he fired at her. The bullet flew over her head, and hit the wall next to the door. She came up from the roll right into him, and pistol whipped him across the head as he fell backwards.

John collapsed to the floor, and Death's booted foot came smashing down on his hand, forcing him to release the gun. The pain from his head was blinding, and he felt blood running down the side of his face. He stayed conscious, and looked up to see Death holding a gun in his face, with another trained on Mary, where she lay gasping at the base of the wall. She had a booted foot planted firmly on his sternum, and she was pressing so hard he fought to breathe. The guard who had remained in the hall had come in while Death dealt with them, and had knocked the girls back on the bed, his weapon up, aiming at Donovan's head.

"Mary. You should have left." Death gasped out, and John felt the pain recede as dread came over him. The look on her face was terrifying. Every other expression of madness she had before this point was nothing compared to how she looked now. She didn't even resemble a human being anymore.

John struggled to pull in air, hands grabbing at her boot. He twisted towards her just enough to suck in air, and he saw the mobile on the floor next to Death's other boot. The line was still open. Sherlock was hearing all of this. Several more men came running in the room, guns out and up. Death didn't seem to notice, her gaze locked on the blonde assassin as she crouched at the base of the wall. Death wasn't pressing down as hard, and John sucked in air. Blood had run into his eyes, and he blinked it away.

"Gentlemen, restrain the good doctor." Death pulled back as her men swooped down, and pulled John to his feet. "Take Dr Watson downstairs to the ballroom. I'll be down shortly."

The last thing John saw before he was dragged from the room was Death standing over Mary, the gun still pointing at her head.

* * *

"She's coming! Sherlock, it's too late!" Mary gasped out.

Sherlock heard the door burst open and he felt his heart stop at the sound of a gun firing.

Sherlock was helpless as he heard Death knock John down, and he was never more terrified in those seconds before he heard Death order her men to take John downstairs to the ballroom. The line remained open, and Sherlock struggled to stay quiet, so as not to draw attention to the phone on the other end. He needed to hear as much as he could. He flipped Violet's mobile on speaker, and listened intently. He held a hand up to Violet, motioning her to be quiet as Death's voice came over the line.

* * *

Jaime fought to maintain her control. The rage was so powerful, so seductive. She wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger. It was whispering to her, caressing her mind, her finger dying to pull the trigger. Kill Mary. Kill her as her breaking heart was demanding.

Jaime stared down at the woman at her feet, who looked up at her without fear. Mary wasn't one to beg. She was calm, a hand braced on the wall behind her, the other up slightly in front of her, as if she had stopped herself from reaching out to the woman who was fighting not to kill her.

"Why didn't you leave? Why make this hurt?" Jaime choked out, and to her horror, felt a tear roll down her cheek. "You should have left me."

Death saw it on Mary's face. Saw her realize just how much her betrayal hurt. Mary's face went white, and there was a shadow of guilt in her eyes. Jaime saw it, and she swallowed against the cry she felt rising in her chest. Jaime fought back, battling emotions she hadn't felt in decades. They were thundering through her heart, striving to ruin her control. She refused to let herself care.

Jaime didn't care. She wouldn't let herself care. Jaime found herself crying, crying for the first time in decades. She hadn't cried since the day she killed Blackwood. She hadn't even cried when she learned that her brother had committed suicide. She hadn't cried when she couldn't steal his body back from MI6, she hadn't cried in the last two horribly lonely years without him. She hadn't cried one tear.

But the woman at her feet had found her heart, and on the same day she did, destroyed it utterly. Jaime had known her end was near, and so she gave in to the urge to be herself. To show the woman at her feet who she used to be. She had wanted Mary to see Jaime Moriarty, and not Death. She had wanted so badly for someone to know her before she died. And yet the very first day that Jaime Moriarty came back to life, from the depths of a shadowed past, she got her heart-broken. She shattered.

Mary said nothing, just locked her beautiful blue eyes on Jaime's. Jaime could see her so clearly, see her thoughts racing through her eyes.

"I'm pregnant, Jaime." Mary whispered. Jaime saw the truth in her eyes. Those three words gave her all the answers she needed.

She snapped. She dropped the gun to point at the floor, and staggered away from Mary. Her men moved in, and lifted the blonde woman to her feet, securing her hands behind her with zip ties. Jaime sobbed quietly, pressing the back of a hand still gripping a gun to her mouth. She shook, and she couldn't pull her eyes away from Mary. The expression on Mary's face only made it worse. Jaime saw in it the confusion, the guilt, the awareness that she had broken the other woman's heart, and that she hurt as well. Mary had been forced to choose. Between the young assassin so similar to herself, and the man who fathered her child. And she had chosen the father of her child, no matter his sins against her.

Jaime let the room fade away, and she felt heavy. Her eyes fluttered shut. The weight of the last two years came crashing down on her, and she struggled to breathe. There was a howling in her heart, like a cold winter wind roaring over a barren landscape. Empty broken remnants of her soul shuddered under the force of the winds, and she closed her eyes tight. The cold filled her, tearing at her, and she fought to remain standing under the strength of her pain, her grief.

There was a tiny spark of light, valiantly burning under the winds. Cold daggers of despair stabbed at it, trying to smother it. To force it out of existence. It was the flame that fed her rage, her desire for revenge. The desire to hurt Sherlock Holmes. To hurt the man who made her brother leave her.

James had been content to run the world through the greed and hatred of others. He played with people's lives, and took commissions for jobs that interested him. He had been a consulting criminal, and the quality of the world's evil deeds had risen when he discovered his vocation. She had followed him, content to be the weapon he depended on. She thrived on blood, on death, and she had never met a challenge she couldn't defeat. As she grew in skill, she had spent more time away on jobs, and after a particularly long absence, had come home to find James obsessed with a man named Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had challenged her brother in a way she had never seen anyone do before. James came alive, the ennui that threatened to smother him on a daily basis banished in the face of his delight. Sherlock played the game, played it so well he defeated her brother. That had never happened before. Ever. James had risen to the challenge, and it was that drive to win at all costs that was ultimately his downfall.

James had chosen to die rather than lose to Sherlock Holmes. He had only spared her enough concern to tell her to hide as Sybil Moran, to stay safe. In case he lost. Which he had. He had lost to Sherlock Holmes, but it was his little sister who lost everything. She had lost her brother to his obsession. And Sherlock Holmes had defeated her brother by living, nullifying his death. It was if the greatness, the power, all of it was hollow and useless. Because Sherlock lived, James was rendered less than who he really was. Nothing but a madman. To be dismissed, and forgotten.

He was James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind to ever live. She was his sister, his disciple, his blade. She wouldn't let anything stop her from fulfilling her brother's last job. To kill Sherlock Holmes, and to burn out his heart.

Jaime Moriarty opened her eyes, and dropped her hand. Mary stood before her, and Jaime handed her guns to one of her men. She lifted her shirt, and Mary's eyes widened as she saw the harness strapped to her torso.

"As I am fairly certain the first thing you did was tell Holmes where we are, I'm going to assume it's safe to start the show." Jaime cast a glance at the window, at the deepening shadows of the night, but the distant lights of London could be seen in the distance, along the river. "You should have left me Mary. It gave me some measure of satisfaction knowing that while I may have used you to further my own ends, I was able to avenge the hurt and pain inflicted on you. I found myself wanting to avenge you, for your sake. I wanted you to be happy. I have never wanted that for anyone other than James. I think you just broke my heart. I would have handled you leaving far better than I am handling your betrayal."

Jaime slid a finger through the metal cage, and activated the London bombs. Every ten minutes a bomb would detonate. Until London lay in ruins, the heart burnt out of the country. Or until her heart stopped. And when it did, this nightmare would be over. This fresh wound hurt too much.

"Jaime, no. Don't." Mary pleaded. "Sweetheart, you don't have to do this. James didn't love you enough to stay, he left you alone. Don't follow him."

Jaime nodded, and wiped the tears from her face.

"So he did. But I plan on asking him about that in person. And I intend to drag Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to Hell with me." Jaime Moriarty stood tall, and pulled her shirt back down. "The first of the bombs should being going off within the next ten minutes. It'll continue until I'm dead, or London is. We'll have an excellent view from the ballroom. It's dark enough now that we can see the fires from here."

Jaime turned to the women on the bed. Anthea and Donovan looked as if they wanted to kill her, and she didn't blame them one bit. She deserved to be killed. She was a monster. One so evil Mary had turned from her own desire for revenge, and betrayed her. Never mind that she wanted Sherlock to know where she was; she just hadn't expected that this was how he would discover her location. And she had no doubt that Sherlock Holmes was on the way. Let him do the honors. Molly shook, and Jaime looked at this woman. She was so scared, and Jaime felt a shiver of delight. She knew what she was going to do.

"I'm going to keep my promise, Mary. It seems only right. When we Moriarty's make a promise, we keep it. I promised them mercy. You shall join them. Together, you may all watch as John and Sherlock burn to death. You chose them over me, over yourself. Enjoy the pain, I know for a fact it lasts a lifetime."

"Take them to the boathouse. Secure them inside. They do not leave." Jaime ordered her men, and she left, not looking back.

* * *

The line went dead, and Sherlock wasted no time in dialing his brother. Less than ten minutes. Not enough time to disarm, but enough time to warn.

"Violet, send that list of locations to Mycroft and Lestrade. Hack through everything you have to, send it now. Bombs are about to go off." Sherlock ordered, and he listened anxiously for his brother to answer the phone.

"Violet Hunter, I do believe you have some…" Mycroft started to complain, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Mycroft! Shut it! Violet is sending you locations where there may be bombs about to explode. Less than ten minutes until the first one goes off. A bomb will go off every ten minutes until I stop Death. I should be at her location within the hour. _Don't argue, do your job!_"

"What…. We just got it. Go." Mycroft hung up the phone, and Sherlock was thankful his brother chose not to argue just this once.

"Violet, I need a boat. Get us to the river." Sherlock tossed her the mobile, and she caught it, summoning a cab as she packed up her gear. She pulled out two syringes, and Sherlock didn't even blink as she pulled off the caps. She handed them over to him, and kept packing.

"Both in the thigh, next to each other. One's adrenaline, the other is that cocktail I got from my Colombian contacts. It's a variant on what the military uses on severely injured black ops soldiers in the field. Keeps them going, but sacrifices higher functions. You take the adrenaline with it, you should feel fucking great, and it'll keep your head kinda clear, but you'll crash really hard in about forty five minutes. I've got another set if we need it."

She was ready, and Sherlock didn't hesitate. He stabbed himself in the leg with both needles, and pressed both plungers at once. She didn't even give him time to pull them out before she had a hold of his arms, and was dragging him to the door. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, and she held him up with one arm as she pulled up locations on the river nearest to them.

"Considering the hour and what we need, we're gonna to be committing our thousandth felony of the day here in a bit."

There was a cab coming down the street, and Violet flagged it down. Sherlock found himself thrown into the backseat, Violet slamming the door shut.

"Head towards the river, fastest route, I'll direct you where we're going once we get close." Violet told the cabbie. "And if you do it as fast as possible, there's a hundred pounds in it for you on the side."

The cabbie had a cross look on his face right up until Violet slapped the pound note against the glass divider. Sherlock found himself having to hold on as the cab flew away from the curb.

Sherlock didn't know what was happening to him, but he was alternating between wanting to vomit, giggle, and get up and run to the river himself. His heart was beating so hard he felt the arteries in his neck jumping, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The pain was evaporating, and his fingers and toes were tingling, as if he had a low current of electricity running through him. He took a deep breath, and when he felt no pain, sucked in more air. He coughed as a result, and he caught the shiny flash of blood on his sleeve as he pulled his arm away from his face.

_Okay, still have internal bleeding. Not a cure all. Feel fucking amazing, but still hurt. Got it._

Sherlock ignored Violet and the cabbie as she gave him directions she was reading off her mobile. His head was in a strange place. He was remarkably lucid, but he kept getting distracted by lights in windows as they passed, idle observations, deductions cramming themselves in his frontal lobe, all demanding attention. Sherlock let his head fall back on the seat, and closed his eyes. All that did was make him nauseous, and he quickly opened them.

"Violet?" he murmured. She cast him a quick look, and didn't say anything. She raised her free hand, and put her fingers to his neck. She held her hand there, and pulled it away after a minute.

"Give it a few minutes to work itself out, Sherlock. You'll be fine." Violet went back to directing the cabbie, but not before Sherlock caught the worried look in her eyes.

Sherlock locked his eyes on the back of the cabbie's head, and hoped his stomach and head would settle. He hated getting sick.

"Yes, here's fine. Stop! Here, take your money, and we were never here." Violet told the cabbie, and Sherlock found himself yanked from the cab. He stumbled several steps before he noticed he was able to walk, and his legs felt weird. Like he had ropes wrapped around his legs, and he had to be extra careful not to trip.

Sherlock let Violet drag him by his sleeve, and she pulled him down a dark alley, the only light from the torch app on her mobile. Sherlock caught hints of light above them, and he saw a brief flash of the Eye as Violet dragged him down the alley. She stopped just outside a gate in a tall chain link fence, and shielding the mobile in his jacket, she hacked into the security feeds of Jubilee Gardens.

"What are we doing?" Sherlock whispered, and fought back the urge to laugh. He thought he was being quiet, but he had sounded so loud. Her face was right next to his, and his words stirred her jet black hair. "Sorry, I thought I was whispering."

"Shhhh! I just turned off the cameras and killed the alarms. You have two minutes to pick that lock on the fence and help me steal one of the sightseeing boats." Violet pulled back from him, and pushed him at the gate.

Sherlock giggled, and grabbed at the lock, and smirked when he saw what kind it was. Sherlock had that lock opened and fallen to the ground in less than ten seconds and he pushed the gate wide. He skipped in, and a part of him was appalled at his behavior, but all he could do was laugh. Violet blazed past him, and Sherlock took off after her. She knew exactly where she was going, and took him down the side of the massive platform that held the Ferris wheel on the banks of the Thames. Violet didn't hesitate, she just leaned over the railing, and looked down.

"Got one! There's a ladder, go!" Violet tugged at him, and Sherlock brushed her off, certain he could climb down the ladder. Which he did, very enthusiastically. So much so he fell in a seat, and couldn't remember why he was there. He remembered once Violet jumped from the platform, landing so close, she almost ended up in his lap.

"Sherlock! I know you know how to hot wire a car, tell me you can do the same to a boat." Violet flipped her mobile at his face, and Sherlock glared at her in disbelief. Of course he can, he's Sherlock Holmes! And just to prove it, he pulled out his knife, opened the panel next to the steering column, and had the engine roaring to life. All in about twenty seconds. Violet cast off the moorings, and she took over, backing the boat out and way from the platform.

Sherlock thought he was paying attention, but he found himself distracted yet again by a bright orange glow flashing brightly between two large buildings next to the river. He stared at it, wondering why there were fireworks going off in the middle of the night next to the Tower of London.

"How long was I out?" Sherlock felt a jolt run through him. Those weren't fireworks. That was a storm of fire. Burning at the Tower. They had just been at Jubilee Gardens, and that was no quick trip, even by boat on the river.

"It's been thirty minutes since Death activated the bombs. That's the second bomb to go off. The third is about to go off any minute. I called Mycroft while you were having your little drug moment over there. He has people on it already. The first bomb went off in Westminster." Violet said quietly, her voice sad and angry all at once.

"Where in Westminster?" He knew, he just knew. Before she even spoke, Sherlock knew where the first bomb had gone off.

"Baker Street." Came her soft reply.

"How long until we get where we're going?" He asked, dread pulling at his insides.

"Too long."

* * *

Lestrade swore as the bullet came too close for comfort, metal ringing over his head as it ricocheted off the fire escape. He ducked back even further, having seen enough. He was at the rear fire escape at the roof level of St Bart's Hospital, and Greg Lestrade knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had found one of the bombs.

The information had come from Sherlock via a woman that went only by the initials of VH, and it had taken a call from Mycroft for Lestrade to know the information was legit. She had sent a map of London dotted with dozens of potential bomb sites, and the first two he had checked had been clear. He had emptied Scotland Yard out on to the city streets, and Mycroft had sent him operatives as backup. There were hundreds of people searching London. But they were too late. Lestrade could see the inferno that blazed from Baker Street, the flames casting their light against the shadows in the far distance. And he knew from the chatter on the radios that another bomb had gone off at the Tower.

"DI Lestrade to Dispatch. Confirm targets at St Bart's Hospital. Multiple suspects, confirm explosive device." Lestrade called softly into his radio.

"Dispatch copies, sir. Be advised, MI6 is warning of imminent explosion of next device in five minutes." Came the reply over the radio, and Lestrade swore. The Hospital was only about halfway evacuated, and there wasn't enough time to get them all out before the next bomb went off.

_Why are they guarding the bombs? If they are on a timer, why are they guarding them?_ Lestrade stayed under the ledge of the roof, but lifted up just enough to see if anyone was coming his way. He knew nothing about bombs, just what he caught from taking to the guys on the tactical response teams, and odd bits from movies. Hell, the closest he'd ever gotten to a bomb was talking to Sherlock and John about…. _They are guarding the bombs because they can be turned off! It has to be easy for them to be turned off, otherwise, they wouldn't be here waiting to die!_

Lestrade took a quick look, and ducked back down as another shot went over his head. There were two men he could see, possibly more. He'd say three, just to be safe.

"Dispatch to all teams: Imminent detonation in four minutes." The voice cracked out over the radio, and Greg knew he was out of time. If this bomb went off, dozens of people would die.

"Lestrade to Dimmock." Lestrade called softly over the radio. Dimmock should still be at the roof access stairwell, about five yards from the bomb on the roof. They had tried to get through at that point, but the return fire had been too heavy, and Lestrade had ordered them to stay back.

"Go ahead, sir." Dimmock answered him, voice low.

"I need a distraction. NOW." Lestrade gripped his gun, and stuffed his radio in his pocket. He nodded at the two MI6 operatives just below him on the landing. They looked back at him, faces tight and grim in the shifting shadows. They knew what he was going to do. And he knew they would be right behind him.

Whatever Dimmock did as a distraction worked. Lestrade waited for a heartbeat, and trusted that if he was going to die, it would at least be quick. Gunfire erupted on the rooftop, all pointed towards the stairwell off to the side. Lestrade stood and jumped on the roof, running forward towards the bomb, and the three men around it.

His first shot was lucky. He was nervous, pulse pumping violently in his arms and chest. The first suspect dropped, the bullet catching him in the face. The farthest guard turned from the stairs, and aimed for him. Lestrade kept running, full out. The guard aiming for him fired, and all he saw was the muzzle flash bright in his eyes. He was mere feet away, and he didn't stop. He refused to stop. Lestrade fired, and caught the guard shooting at him in the throat, and his gun fell as his hands reached up to stop the gushing torrent of blood.

There was a shot from behind him, and it screamed past his shoulder. The bullet hit the remaining guard, and he toppled lifelessly to the roof top. The operative just behind him had a clear shot, and he had taken it without hesitation as he leapt up from the fire escape.

Lestrade dived for the bomb, falling to his knees beside it. It was large, about three feet long, and a foot and a half in diameter. There was a timer on the top of it. From the descriptions Lestrade had gotten from John, it looked very much like the massive bomb in the train carriage under Westminster that Sherlock had disarmed. Lestrade began to pray in earnest, as the timer on the bomb was counting down. This was the next one to go off.

_Death was Moran's wife, Death has his left over explosives. Same makers? Same design? Where's the FUCKING OFF SWITCH?_

He ran his hands over the bomb's casing, and he shouted out an exultant 'Yes!' as he found it, low down on the other side of the bomb. Greg threw the switch just as the counter hit two minutes. They had killed three guards and turned off a massive bomb, saving untold lives in the process. Not a bad use of two minutes.

Lestrade stood, and hands shaking from adrenaline, pulled out his radio. His hands were shaking so much he almost dropped it.

"DI Lestrade to dispatch. Bomb at St Bart's disarmed. Suspect down. Bombs can be shut off. I repeat, the bombs have off switches! Kill the guards, turn off the bombs!"

He stumbled, and Lestrade wondered what was wrong with him. He had never felt this way after a shooting. Sure, the adrenaline high could make him shaky, and light-headed. But this was different. He felt like he couldn't find his feet, and his mouth was dry. There was a strange pulling sensation in his side, like his shirt was caught on something. He didn't notice that he dropped his radio, or that his gun clattered to the rooftop as well. The stairwell door was propped open, and light spilled across his chest as he stumbled. Lestrade put his hand to his chest, where that weird sensation was. He didn't feel anything, and he pulled away his hand.

He blinked. Why was there blood all over his hand? So much blood. He stared at his hand, and he couldn't feel the blood run from his lips, down his chin. Lestrade could feel nothing as his knees gave way, and he collapsed to the rooftop. The last thing he saw was blood pooling beside him.

* * *

John fell to his knees in the ballroom, the barrel of a shotgun boring into the back of his neck. His hands were tied behind him, the zip ties digging deep. He blinked fast, trying to see past the blood running in a steady drip over his right eye, down his face. If he survived this, he was going to need stitches. Only two guards had come into the ballroom with him, and the look in their eyes had him thinking it was a very bad idea for him to be alone with them.

The guards hadn't been gentle with him this time. John guessed it had something to do with how badly their mistress had taken Mary's betrayal. He had found himself thrown down the last few steps of the stairs, kicked, and jerked around by his bound hands so much he feared his shoulders might dislocate.

"I say we kill him, tell her he tried to escape." He heard one grumble behind him, and whoever was holding the shotgun pressed harder. John bent with it, teeth clenched in fear and anger. "I've never seen her that upset before."

"Can't do that, she'll know." Another voice said, and John could barely see a pair of feet clad in black combat boots come at him from the side. He couldn't avoid the kick as a foot slammed into his ribs. He coughed as pain radiated from his ribs, air in short supply. "But that doesn't mean we can't work him over while she's fighting with her girlfriend."

"Would you like that, little man? Heard you like boys, want to play with big men now? Real men?" A voice growled in his ear, and John refused to show fear as a hand grabbed at his waistband, jerking him back against the shotgun. A roughly shaven face was pressed along the back of his neck, and John had a sick rolling sensation in his gut as the man behind him bit him. "Little man like you must really like it when his freak of a detective fucks him."

"Fuck off." John gasped out. _Crap, wrong choice of words!_

"Good idea, pretty man." The man behind he laughed, and John was jerked to his feet. The shotgun was tossed to the other guard, and John kicked at the man holding him. He got the other man in the thigh, and John went to kick him again. A fist came from nowhere, and clipped him on the jaw. John gasped, and spit blood out to the floor. He was bodily picked up, and slammed on the top of the large table behind him. He couldn't move, and his hands were trapped under him, the zip ties cutting at the tender flesh of his wrists.

"Who's first?" The man with the shotgun laughed, and the guard holding the doctor down didn't even answer before his free hand went to John's belt buckle. John brought his legs up, and kicked as hard as he could, pushing his assailant off him briefly. The bigger man was too fast, and came back at him. John cried out as his hands were crushed by the other man's weight, the guard practically lying on top of him on the table. A sick feeling was washing over him, pulling at him, tearing at his resolve. They meant to rape him, rape him for hurting their crazy mistress's feelings.

John gasped at the pain in his hands, and struggled under the weight of his attacker. The guard was fully on top of him, and he felt a large hand working at his belt, fingers digging at his trousers. His belt opened, and John shouted as the guard's hand reached under his waistband, fingers pinching and grabbing.

_NO! I am no one's victim!_

John went limp. Totally. So limp he knew his unresisting form would draw notice. His attacker pulled back, lifting his face from where he was biting at John's neck. John slammed his forehead as hard as he could into his attacker's nose, the crunching noise loud in the room. His would-be rapist fell off him, hands clutching at the ruin of his nose, blood running through his fingers and down his face. His screams reverberated through the large room.

John rolled off the far side of the table, and quickly sat on the floor, pushing his bound hands under his backside, past his thighs, and over his feet. He had his hands in front of him now, and snapped them sharply against the soles of his shoes. One of the ties broke, and John was free. He leapt to his feet, and he grabbed a gun from the table in front of him. John clicked off the safety just as the guard with the shotgun fired.

* * *

Jaime stood in the hall, ignoring the women her guards were escorting from the room. She leaned her head to the wall, arms braced to the wall over her head. She concentrated on regaining her equilibrium, and she refused to acknowledge Mary as the blonde assassin was walked out behind her.

"Jaime….." Mary whispered, and Jaime flinched, turning her face away, hiding it against the cool plaster of the wall. "Sweetheart….."

"Take her to the boathouse. Make sure they can't leave. Establish a perimeter around the house. Holmes is to be allowed in to the main house. No one else is to be allowed in. If anyone leaves after he comes in, kill them." Jaime said, and she heard the quiet affirmative from her men as they dragged Mary and her hostages down the hall.

She stood in the silence of the hall, and felt her mobile vibrate once. She dropped an arm, and pulled it from her pocket. The first bomb just exploded. She hadn't put them in any particular order. She had simply let her men arrange them among the targets as they saw fit, and they would explode in sequence. The random element to it was she didn't even know which one would go off next. Only the guards actually with the bombs knew. She had chosen her most loyal, her most devoted, to remain behind with the bombs to insure they exploded. And they all knew, to the last man, that they would only survive the night if she died before all the bombs exploded. And they had still gone. Jaime had been left with the less able, the marginally devoted dregs of her people. But that was fine. The ones remaining were all aware of her plans, and those here knew they wouldn't die as long as they maintained a perimeter as she had asked.

Once Sherlock was here, she would have her people withdraw, and cover the exits to make sure no one escaped. In case Sherlock Holmes defeated her as he had defeated her brother.

Jaime put her mobile back in her pocket and walked down the hall. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard John Watson yell from the ballroom.

Jaime grabbed her radio, and called over the channel. "Is Holmes here?" She got no answer. She sprinted for the ballroom doors, convinced she was going to see Sherlock attempting to rescue his lover.

She burst through the doors, and took in the scene before her in one glance. They had tried to rape the doctor.

_NEVER AGAIN IN THIS HOUSE!_ Rage erupted from her core as she saw the state of Dr. Watson's clothes, the bite marks on his neck, and the moaning guard holding his broken nose as he huddled on the floor. She didn't even know how her knife got in her hand; it was spinning through the air in a streak of flashing silver as it traveled the length of the room.

The guard fired the shotgun at John just as her blade sank to the hilt in his temple. The new corpse jerked, and the shot went wide. She was running, not caring that John was aiming at her as she crossed the long room in seconds. Jaime screamed in fury as she jumped at the kneeling guard, her knee connecting solidly with the back of his head. He fell out full length on the floor, flat on his face, and she landed between him and the man she had killed with her knife. She grabbed the hilt, and with the harsh sound of metal grinding on bone, ripped the blade free from the dead man's skull.

"Never again! Never in this house! Never again!" She screamed, and screamed, the blade rising over the man sprawled on the floor. She brought it down, silver mixing with deep red as she stabbed and stabbed at the rapist on the floor. Tears ran from her eyes, scorching hot as they raced down her cheeks. They were as hot as the blood splashing on her arms. _"No one will ever be raped here again!"_

Jaime stabbed until she lost a grip on the blade. Until her arm was coated in hot red blood. She left the soaked blade in the ruined remains of the guard, and her arm fell to her side. She wavered, and collapsed to the floor. Her arms were shaking, and her mind was numb.

"Well, um, thanks?" John said, standing over her. She hardly registered the gun in his hands, and she didn't care that it was pointed at her heart. The spikes that hovered in her flesh over her rapidly beating heart were a reassuring reminder that all pain ends.

* * *

Mary didn't fight the guards. She walked calmly between two of them as they brought up the rear. The three women were ahead of her, three guards forcing them along the long path down the lawn to the river. The boathouse was a couple hundred yards from the house, and hovered over the shore. It was large; befitting of the grand old house it belonged to. A single lamp glowed at the door, and the guard in front unlocked the building, tossing on the lights as he entered. Mary was ushered in behind the hostages, and she watched as they were walked down to the far end. There were three slips in the boathouse, two of them empty, and the third held a large boat, easily twenty-five feet long, and large enough to carry several people, and many large crates. She knew this was the boat that Jaime had used when she bombed Blackwood Chemical.

Anthea, Donovan and Molly were all being tied up at the far rear of the building, over the water. Mary knew that if the main house exploded, they were in the most protected place, farthest from the blast. Which is why she wasn't surprised when her escorts tied her to a wooden support column near the door. Closest to the main house. If debris made it this far, it would most likely hit the front of the building. Hit her. Mary didn't fight them as they grabbed her arms, and pulled her against the column. Her wrists were tightly secured together, and they left her there, hugging the column. She had some slack, about six inches. Not enough to pull on the ties until they broke, not in the time she figured she had.

Mary said nothing, and she waited patiently as the men left. They were going to take up their positions around the perimeter, to make sure no one left the manor. The only way out of that building once you went in would be in a body bag.

Mary jerked in surprise as she heard the distant report of a shotgun. It had come from the house. John. Dear God, John was up there, and Sherlock wasn't here yet. Mary looked out all the windows she could see, and then up at the column.

"Ladies, tell Sherlock when he gets here that she's in the ballroom. I have to stop her." Mary called to the women at the far side of the room. Anthea looked her in the eye, and Donovan called to her, and Molly started tugging at her restraints. "I'd take you with me, but I'm afraid it's a one way trip back into that house."

Mary looked up the length of the column, and leaned back as far as she could. She planted her feet against the base of it, and using the restraints, began to climb up the column. It was hard going, the zip ties sharp as she applied pressure on them. She knew her wrists were bleeding, but she dragged her arms up, and stepped higher. She climbed one foot at a time, breathing hard at the strain. Her shoulders began to burn, and she felt nothing in her fingers. Mary was nearly ten feet from the floor when she felt the first tie begin to slip.

She pushed off the column hard, falling backwards, letting her feet go up as gravity dragged her down the column, her wrists and the zip ties rubbing along the wood like it was sandpaper. She felt the ties snap a split second before she hit the floor. The impact knocked all the air from her lungs, and she instinctively grabbed at her stomach. She curled up, and sucked in air. She let herself lay there for only a heartbeat, and she got up.

Mary looked back at the girls, and held a finger to her lips, asking for silence. She grabbed a hook from the wall, the old kind used by fisherman for centuries. The handle was short, and the blade still sharp and wicked after all these years. Mary moved in the shadows to the wall nearest, and peaked out over the sill of a window. There was a guard barely visible at the corner of the boathouse, nest to the door. The others had melted away into the shadows.

Mary opened the window, and slipped over the sill. She landed lightly on the ground, and crept along the side of the boathouse. She moved like a ghost, her long years of killing from the shadows giving her the confidence to slip up behind the guard three times her size. The bladed hook sliced through the air, soundless as it sank deep in his throat. She pulled him down to the ground, fatal blood loss achieved before he even hit the dirt.

Mary yanked out the hook, and ignored the stench of hot blood in the cold night air. She went to the door, and opened it, dragging the corpse through the door and in the boathouse. She pulled his nine mil from his holster, and the silencer next to it. She looked down to the women. She didn't know what to make of their expressions, and she didn't want to take the time to figure it out. Standing, she threw the hook in their direction. Her aim was true, and it landed at Molly's feet.

"Do not follow me. Get out while you can." Mary told them, running from the boathouse and in to the deep shadows of the path, heading back towards the main house. She had some guards to kill, her baby's father to save, and a poor, mad girl to stop.

* * *

Sherlock gripped the side of the boat and looked ahead at the river bank. This section of the river was only lighted sporadically, and he did his best to see the shoreline of Blackwood Manor.

"GPS says it's coming up on our left. Any minute Sherlock." Violet told him, as she navigated the boat closer to the shore.

"How many bombs have gone off?" Sherlock asked, eyes locked on the dark shoreline.

"My timer says one should have gone off ten minutes ago, but I don't think it did. She might be dead already." Violet said, trying not to state the obvious. That if the London bombs had stopped, then that meant the manor was destroyed.

"We would see flames, fire. Something else happened to that bomb. Someone stopped it from going off. The next one will go off any moment, unless Mycroft and Lestrade's people have found a way to stop them."

"I hope they did." Violet strained to see, certain she had seen a light in the distance.

"I see it." Sherlock said, and it took everything he had not to jump from the boat and swim to shore. The drugs were still coursing through him, but the messed up head games side effects were wearing off. That meant the pain blockers would be going soon too. Then he'd come down from the high, and be useless.

"There's the boathouse, think it's safe to park this beast in there?" Violet asked.

"I'd say so, I'm fairly certain I see a ghost." Sherlock was grinning, despite the overwhelming urge to make Violet speed up.

"What? A ghost?" Violet saw the slim figure of Molly Hooper leaning out over the water, and she had a grin on her face to match the mad detective's.

Sherlock barely waited for Violet to steer the boat into an empty slip in the boathouse before he was leaping out. His feet hit the wood decking, and he sprinted towards the girl he thought dead and gone. Molly was crying and laughing, and her arms snaked around his neck as he hugged her tightly.

She was hysterical, tears mixing with her happy giggles, and Sherlock hugged her slim frame, burying his face in her long hair. She was real, she was alive, and she was breathing his name over and over. Sherlock spun her, and he felt a crack in his heart miraculously seal back up. Molly was alive. That loss of self he had felt when he believed her dead was gone. It was if he hand a hand back after it had been severed from his wrist.

"Molly." He whispered in her ear. She pulled back just enough to see his face, and she smiled that awkward little smile of hers at him. "Molly."

Sherlock leaned down, and pressed his lips to her cheek, wet from her tears and cold from the chill night air. He didn't mind one bit, she was real and alive and his again. She sighed, and he remembered to behave. He had a doctor to save. This sweet doctor gave him hope he would save the other.

Sherlock pulled back and looked at the other two women. Donovan smiled weakly at him from where she stood leaning against the wall, and Anthea still sat on the floor. The remains of zip ties clustered on the floor, and there was a bloody fisherman's hook in Anthea's good hand. He looked, but saw no fresh wounds.

Sherlock followed the blood droplets on the floor, and saw the dead body next to the door. There was another set of ties near the front, and Sherlock knew what had happened. Jaime was attempting to spare Mary. Looked like the American assassin was not happy with that.

"How long has she been gone?" Sherlock asked Molly.

"Not too long. Maybe ten minutes?" Molly told him. She bit her lip, and seemed ashamed for some reason. "We were going to follow her, but Donovan can hardly walk, and Anthea gets dizzy every time she stands up."

"No, stay here, you'll all get killed. They're expecting me, I'll be fine. Stay with Violet." Sherlock gestured to the raven haired woman standing in the boat, and she waved as he mentioned her.

"Violet, get the girls to safety. Call Mycroft, tell him you have the women, and head away from the manor."

"You want us to leave you?" Donovan blurted out.

"Yes." Sherlock pulled Molly to the edge of the slip, and he pushed until she stepped down into the boat. She clutched at him, her hands holding his until he had to pry her away. "I will not fail, but if the impossible happens, I prefer not to have you die with me."

Sherlock didn't give them a chance to argue, he grabbed Donovan, and helped her down into the boat. Anthea was the hardest, he felt a shimmer of pain as he bent down and helped her up. He held back the desire to cough, knowing they wouldn't leave if they saw him coughing up blood. He handed her over to Violet and Molly, and Sherlock backed away.

"Go, Violet." Sherlock ordered his hacker. She looked him in the eyes, and he thought he saw a tear. Violet never cried. Ever. "Go now."

Sherlock broke away, and walked to the front of the boathouse. They were expecting him. He knew he had no reason to fear walking out that door. Once he did, he either killed a madwoman, saved London, damning himself and the one he loved. Or she defeated him, and London burned as his corpse cooled.

Sherlock opened the door, hearing the boat back out of the slip, returning to the river. He stepped out in the night, taking the path up the hill to Blackwood Manor.


	33. Wraith in the Flames

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Violence. Heartbreak. Sadness. Explosions.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

**Next chapter posts on Saturday.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Three**

"_**Wraith in the Flames"**_

Jaime lay panting on her back, looking up at the hard eyes of Doctor John Watson. She had no fear in her heart. It was a wasteland of broken dreams. There was nothing left to lose, so she had nothing to fear. He held the gun pointed at her heart, and she smiled.

"End us all, John." She whispered. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, and she had no energy to get up. The warm blood from the freshly slain guards was running along the floor, soaking in her clothes as she lay between the two bodies. Every inch of her splattered in blood.

She slowly raised an arm, and watching his eyes for signs he was going to fire, tugged at the hem of her shirt. She lifted it just enough to show the harness underneath. John's eyes dragged from hers, and she giggled as she saw comprehension flood them. His eyes came back to hers, and she saw his fear, and the steel beneath it. She also saw the willingness to pull the trigger. John was willing to die to stop the bombs in London. She was impressed, even in her exhausted state. What a man, this army doctor. He had seen his friends die, his lover was injured, and he had been kidnapped and beaten, and nearly raped. And there was no sign in him anywhere of being broken. And he was willing now to pull the trigger, before anyone else died. What a man, indeed.

"Do it." She told him, her voice the only thread of sound in the large room. "Kill me, free me. I miss him, John."

John backed up a step, moving so he had a clean line on her heart. She appreciated it; that meant he was going to make it quick. The bombs would burn as much as explode. She really didn't fancy waiting for the flames to consume her. She was too impatient.

She was feeling something new. Something she hadn't felt before. The rage was gone, it was so quiet in her mind. She had no urge to fight, even though she could kill him now. She could see it in her mind, so easily. Spin and kick from the floor, knock the gun from his hands, grab the shotgun that was only a couple feet away. Blow him in half. Grab her knife, and gut him like a fish. So easy. Yet she didn't. There was no need. No desire to fight.

"My lady." Came a voice, unexpected. John jumped, and his eyes flickered to a radio on the nearby table. "He's here."

Jamie couldn't believe it. Fate was indeed willing to be kind. Sherlock Holmes was here at last.

"Will you answer that, or do you want to hand me the radio?" Jaime giggled, and she laughed harder as John comprehended the words from her guard. "Your lover is here, John. Pull the trigger, you may yet spare him before he walks through that door."

She kept on laughing, curling in on herself on the bloody floor. Not minding the blood or the dead bodies one bit, she laughed and laughed.

* * *

Mary sprinted through the shadows, avoiding the path. She ran parallel to it up the hill, and she was screwing on the silencer to the nine mil as she went. The nearest guard should be at the midway point of the hill, where the path spread out in a small terraced garden before continuing down the hill to the boathouse. There were two large trees just off to the side, and if she were a sniper tasked with killing anyone who stepped out of the ballroom, it was exactly where she would be.

She kept low, minimizing her silhouette in the weak starlight. The house was ablaze with lights, lit up from within like a miniature sun. She kept her eyes down, avoiding ruining her night vision. She paused just below the trees, and looked for the broken shadows that indicated a human body.

She saw it, halfway up the largest tree, in a clutch of large branches. He was foolish; the lights from the house clearly outlined him from this angle. He would be invisible from directly below, or from the house. But she could see him clearly. Mary knelt on the hill, and raised the pistol. She breathed, in and out, again, and pulled the trigger. There was the soft pop from her gun, and she was moving before the body even toppled from the tree. She ran to the body, stopping to grab a nine mil from his belt, and a knife. She may need to kill someone without using her gun. She tucked the blade into her jacket pocket, and expelled the clip from the spare gun. She didn't need the weapon, just the ammo. She tucked that into her waistband as she moved away from the corpse.

If any other snipers were in the area looking in this direction, she would be targeted by the muzzle flash. She went deeper in the shadows, where the hill dipped in the lawn, creating a dark, black shadow along the width of the yard. She tucked the gun into her waistband, and kept her head and body low as she half ran, half crawled across the vast green lawn. The other sniper for this side of the house should be positioned somewhere in the hedges on the far side of the lawn, directly where she was heading.

Mary ran, ignoring her sore body, her bloody wrists. She knew Sherlock would be here any minute. He loved John too much not to be. She understood him. She loved John too. And if she were to save the man she loved, she needed to save Sherlock. She had no doubt that if anyone could stop Jaime Moriarty, it would be him. She ignored the part of her heart that quaked at the thought of Jaime dying. But not even Sherlock Holmes could stop multiple snipers ordered to kill anyone who left the manor alive.

She ran through the cold shadows, her feet noiseless in the grass. The hedges that framed this side of the vast lawn were just ahead, and she dropped, flat to the earth. Mary pulled in air, keeping her body fueled, ready to move. She was waiting, listening for some sigh of where the sniper was. She had patience, long years of it. And she would not let her years of experience go to waste, not this night.

It was quiet. She could hear night birds of some kind calling in the far distance, and there was a boat out on the river. She heard the engine as it came nearer, and she risked turning her head to look down the hill. A large boat was approaching the boathouse, no running lights. There was enough ambient light in the night that she could see, even at this distance, the tall dark form of Sherlock. She fought down the urge to run back to the boathouse. She was too close now to her target not to be seen. She had to wait. They would not fire on him at this point. The goal was for him to go into the manor.

She hadn't been the only one to see him approach either. Mary heard it, and she held her breath in surprise at how close she actually was to the sniper.

"My lady, he's here." He called over the radio, alerting Jaime to the fact that Sherlock was on site.

Mary slowly turned her head, so low her chin was in the grass. There he was. Five feet up, sitting on the stone wall behind the tall hedges that grew next to it. Mary evened out her breathing, dragging in deep soundless breaths. She was in a horrible position to fire. Her gun was tucked into her waistband, and she would have to move more than she wanted in order to get it. He was alert now, watching the boathouse for signs of Holmes. If he looked down, he would see her. Her dark clothes were a help, but she had nothing to cover her yellow hair or pale skin. She stayed in the shadows, and hoped he was as unobservant as his comrade had been.

* * *

John had no idea what to do. The madwoman was still giggling on the floor, uncaring he had a gun aimed at her heart. The harness she wore had stilled his finger on the trigger, and despite how badly his heart had raced when the guard said Sherlock was here, it terrified him. He couldn't take the shot. If the house went up, he would kill Sherlock too. And he had no idea how far away the boathouse was. He had no desire to hurt the women held there.

John dropped the weapon from her heart, and backed away. He wiped at the blood on his face, and felt the gash she had given him earlier. It had stopped bleeding enough for him to ignore it for now.

John was at a loss. She had no issue killing; the blood surrounding her was evidence of that. She had reacted with extreme violence, to her own people, at their attempt to rape him. He may have stopped their attack, but she saved his life by killing her own guards. And the words she had screamed as she sliced away at his assailant sent a horrible chill through his heart.

'_Never again in this house.' She was raped here. She said this was her childhood home. That's fucking horrible. I don't care what she's done as an adult, no one, no one, deserves that. _

"Why save me if you intend for me to die?" John demanded. She blinked at him, and John was even more confused by the look on her face. It was if she didn't know why she had saved him, either.

"Excellent question, dear. Let me get back to you." She sighed, and dropped her head to the floor. Her hair was soaking up the blood on the floor, but she acted as if it was nothing.

"Shut it off." John said, knowing it was useless, but unable to help himself. All she did was look at him, her eyes wild. She was covered in blood, and he was deeply disturbed by the fact that she was content to lay between the leaking bodies of his assailants.

"No." She gasped out, and she sounded as tired as she looked. Her long red brown hair was tangled about her arms, wet with blood. She was still lovely, despite all that. Her mask was stripped away. There was nothing of the cold-blooded monster left in the woman in front of him. She was like a flame, flickering and fading in the cold breeze, struggling to stay lit. Her eyes shone in the light overhead, and John backed away further, fighting the urge to raise the gun. No matter how much he might want her dead, she had to live. No matter how much he might want her to live, she had to die.

John looked to the open doors of the ballroom. They were glass, and ran the length of the room. He could see the river down the hill, and London in the far distance. He couldn't see the boathouse from this angle, but he had a feeling it was too close. If the manor went up, the women were at risk of dying.

"Then I'll just leave, collect Sherlock and the girls, and shoot you from the lawn. You even have a sniper rifle for me to use, how considerate of you." John went back to the table, and grabbed the large rifle. He held it tightly under his arm, and went to one of the open doors.

"Go right ahead, see what happens, John." She giggled again, and he stopped at the threshold to the outside. He looked back at her, to see her pointing at him. He looked down, and his heart sank. There was a red dot from a laser sight hovering over his heart. "My snipers have the house covered. They are outside the kill radius. I ordered them to shoot anyone trying to leave the manor."

"Damn you to Hell and back!" John shouted, and he threw down the rifle. "I should have killed you at the bunker!"

"Yes, you should have. London wouldn't be burning." She pointed again, and John turned his head back towards the city. The lights of London were always bright, but there was an orange and red glow spread across the skyline. His heart sank. London was burning already. People were dying. She needed to die.

John lifted the pistol, and went back to her side. A part of him was screaming that this was wrong. He was seeing in her flashes of sanity, of empathy. As if those traits were trying to crawl free from beneath the madness. This was part murder, self-defense, and suicide all in one. His hand was steady though. His aim never suffered under stress. He never suffered under stress.

"Forgive me, Sherlock." John said, and he aimed for her heart. "I love you."

* * *

Sherlock walked calmly up the path, his strides long and even. The house was open and waiting, every window ablaze with light. He had yet to see anyone, no guards and no sign of Mary. She had gone this way, he was sure. Though he doubted she took the path. He knew no one would fire on him. The goal was for him to meet Moriarty in the ballroom, and they would all die together.

Sherlock refused to show weakness as he climbed the hill. The shots Violet had given him were wearing off, and quickly. He knew people were watching, and he had no desire to telegraph his physical condition.

John was up there. His doctor. His love. The man who meant more to him than anything in this world. He smiled briefly in the dark, realizing how closely his thoughts mirrored the words of the younger Moriarty. She had told Moran that Jim was the man she loved more than anything. He understood that feeling. Sherlock had ignored his own heart, his own feelings, for decades. It had taken John Watson to teach him to feel. How to love.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to see John again. Hold him, hear his voice. So close.

Sherlock stopped. There was something in the air. The scent of blood. Someone had fired a gun recently. He had paused on a small garden terrace, halfway between the house and the river. He looked in the trees, and saw the crumpled form of a dead man. Mary. She had cleared the way.

_Why is there a sniper here? And the way he fell suggests he was facing the house. Why have a sniper set up on the house? Ah. Yes. Of course. To prevent us from leaving. To make us stay, and die. Clever girl._

Sherlock looked around him in the clear night, the air cold and the wind still. He looked, but saw no further signs of Mary, nor any more snipers. Though he would be surprised if he did. Mary was just that good. He knew she would head for the house once the other snipers were dead. And that also meant he had an advantage over Moriarty.

He had promised John that he wouldn't play her game. He didn't intend too. There was every chance that he could get to her another way. Not through violence and death, but through her one weakness. She had revealed it in that room as she confronted Mary and John, and he heard every word of it.

Sherlock walked on, and he knew that he had more than a fighting chance of getting everyone out of this alive.

* * *

Violet took the boat out as far as she dared, without losing sight of the grand house on the hill. She couldn't see anything, but then she wasn't expecting to. All she wanted was for that building to not explode.

"Hey, Molly? Come here, steer for me, I'm calling Mycroft." Violet asked the pathologist. "You don't have to do anything, just keep the wheel steady."

Molly got up from her seat, and took over. She smiled nervously at the hacker, unsure of exactly who she was. But Sherlock knew her, and that was enough for Molly. Did nothing to satiate her curiosity, though.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and dialed. She was expecting voicemail, as she was certain big brother Holmes was a busy man.

"Sherlock?" He answered almost immediately, and Violet gulped at the worry in Mycroft's voice.

"Um. Nope. Just your friendly neighborhood hacker. Sherlock is currently keeping a date with Death at Blackwood Manor." Violet said, and she could hear Mycroft grinding his teeth over the line.

"Violet, explain what is going on right now." Mycroft was enraged, and she stifled a smile at his tone.

"Death is Jaime Moriarty, younger sister of Jim Moriarty. She is at the old home of her stepfather, the Earl of Blackwood, formerly known as Blackwood Manor. It was renamed Copper Beeches five years ago. Mary Morstan is on our side, and helping Sherlock stop Moriarty. I've got three not so dead hostages here with me, and I'm thinking you need to send backup our way. Sherlock has to kill little Moriarty or the bombs won't stop exploding in London until they've all detonated." Violet steadied herself as the boat hit an eddy in the river, and Molly shrugged at her apologetically. "And we're on the river in a boat that may or may not have been acquired through legal means."

"What do you, mean three hostages?" Mycroft's voice broke. "Who's not dead?"

"Someone here wants to talk to you." Violet walked over to Anthea, and she held the phone out to the MI6 operative. The wounded woman looked at the phone like she was afraid to take it. Violet shook it at her, and Anthea reached out. She bit her lip, and put it to her ear.

"Hello, sir." Anthea whispered, and Violet felt her heartstrings tug at the tears running from the other woman's eyes. "I'm not dead."

Violet didn't hear what Mycroft said, but whatever it was, Anthea smiled brilliantly. Her eyes lit up behind her tears, and Violet felt a tug on her heartstrings again. She was so pretty. And Mycroft Holmes made her smile.

_Whoa, Vie. No thinking sexy thoughts about the injured chick. Down girl!_

"Understood, sir. I will be seeing you soon. Here's Ms. Hunter." Anthea smiled at Violet as she handed back the mobile. Donovan put a hand on Anthea's shoulder, and said nothing as the operative cried silently.

"I am on my way. Do you know how many bombs there are?" Mycroft asked, and she could hear him moving around.

"Mary said she saw ten, but thinks there may be twelve. That's a lot of bombs yet to go off." Violet replied. "And the manor is rigged to explode too."

"Why is her house set to explode…..? Oh Sherlock." Mycroft wasn't slow. Annoying, yes. Slow, no.

"Yeah. She wants Sherlock to kill her, and that'll make the house blow up." Violet told him, voice low. Her eyes were drawn to the hill, and the grand house shining atop it.

"I'm on my way." Mycroft said, and for a second she thought he had hung up. "Violet."

"Yeah?" Violet asked.

"Keep her safe." The line went dead.

* * *

Mary watched in horror as the sniper leveled his rifle at the ballroom. She turned, and saw the distant shape of John at one of the glass doors. He paused on the threshold, and she prayed he wouldn't go any further.

_Don't step out. Dear God, John! Don't step out! Stay in there!_

She looked back to the sniper, and he was holding. He was waiting to fire. He was absorbed down his scope, and Mary took her chance.

She flipped on her side, and pulled the nine mil from her waistband. Her gun was up and fired, and the sniper never saw the woman who took his life. The rifle fell on her side of the wall as the now faceless corpse went the other. Mary leapt up, and grabbed the rifle. She slung its strap over her shoulder, and followed the wall towards the house.

Mary scanned the shadows, and she caught the brief glimpse of a tall man walking up the path. Sherlock. She would gain the house at the same time as him.

* * *

"I love you too, John. It's all okay, put down the gun, I'm here now."

John felt his heart explode in his chest. That voice. Deep and powerful and it made his blood rush through his veins. John lowered the gun, and stepped away from the woman at his feet. He backed away from the temptation to kill her. She was now immune to harm; Sherlock was here. His detective was here.

John turned to the door, and saw Sherlock in the doorway. His black coat covered him in the chill night air, and his tall form appeared whole and intact. John saw in that first instant the flash of relief in Sherlock's eyes, and John knew Sherlock would see the same in him.

"Oh God, Sherlock." John didn't wait, he went to his detective.

Sherlock's arms caught him, strong and hard and real. Held him close to his chest, and John buried his face in the taller man's neck. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, under his long coat. John breathed his man in, and he didn't know he could love this much. Sherlock was here, and John knew that everything would be fine. If anyone could save the world, it would be the man who had done it before.

"John." Sherlock murmured in his ear, lips warm against his skin. John shivered, and lifted his head. Sherlock kissed him, his lips capturing John's. There was nothing better in the world. John sighed, and let Sherlock in. His detective's tongue touched his, and John swept his back, kissing his man as deeply as he could. He didn't care they had a witness. She could see whatever she wanted from her crazy spot on the floor. John was with Sherlock again, and nothing else mattered.

"Aww… How sweet." Jaime giggled. "You didn't kiss me like that, Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly lifted his head from John, and the doctor saw the change in Sherlock. His eyes frosted over, and his already very pale face turned to stone. Sherlock gripped John's hand, and they both looked at the woman on the floor.

"This isn't how I expected things to go at this point." She murmured, mostly to herself. "Oh well, it's not really fun unless something's on fire. And blood and death always puts a smile on my face. It'll all end the same anyway."

Jaime had sat up, her arms on her knees. The knife was back in her hand, blood dripping from the point. She smiled at them, and ripped off a piece of the dead man's shirt. John felt Sherlock tense, and he watched as his detective took in the dead men on the floor, Jaime's exhausted state, the blade she was cleaning, and then he looked at John. The rage he saw in Sherlock's eyes was making him nervous.

Sherlock was evaluating John. His belt was still undone, his shirt ripped from his waistband, the stinging bite marks on his neck. John mentally cursed himself. Sherlock saw exactly what had almost happened.

"I'm alright, love." John said to his detective, tugging on his hand. Anything to get Sherlock to stop staring at him like that. Sherlock looked like he was going to commit murder. When Sherlock got this mad, bad things happened. "I stopped them."

"He stopped them, I butchered them." Jaime said casually. "I don't handle rape well. But then, who does? I'd say the rapists, but they don't look so good."

Jaime kicked the corpse next to her, the body moving limply. She dissolved in giggles, and kept cleaning her blade. Sherlock's tension eased, and John sighed in relief. Having Sherlock enraged at this point would be too much to handle.

"Jaime Moriarty, is it not?" Sherlock said, his deep voice melodious and riveting. He pulled John closer to his side, and John went willingly.

"Yes, hello again, dear. What a relief not to have to go by that ridiculous name anymore. 'Death.' Atrocious. A name gifted to me by the unimaginative of the world. And may I say you look far worse than you did last time? What narcotics did you pump into your system to get out of bed?" Jaime grinned, and flipped the knife, reversing the grip once before stilling. "And you traveled all this way with internal bleeding. I bet that lung hasn't stopped leaking since Mary shot you."

John looked at Sherlock. He saw past the joy at seeing his lover, and noticed the signs of internal bleeding. Sherlock was severely pale. His eyes were sunken, and the skin around them looked bruised. Sherlock's grip was strong, but John could feel the occasional tremor run through his frame. His fingers were cold.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"I'll be fine, John. Focus." Sherlock didn't even look at him, just kept staring at the woman on the floor. "It's time to end this."

"Yes, I agree. Shall John pull the trigger, or would you like to borrow my knife? It's very sharp." She said. "There's no point in pretending you don't know about the harness, the heartbeat switch. We've got the rest of our lives to decide how I die. But London? London hasn't got any time."

Jaime stood slowly, the move predatory and graceful. She stepped over the bodies, her boots wet from the puddles of blood on the floor. She was wet all over, actually. There was no inch of her spared from the crimson mess.

"I'd rather not die, today. No thank you." Sherlock sighed, and smiled at their host. "Show me."

"Show you? Why not? John's already seen it." Jaime didn't hesitate.

She slipped the knife back into its sheath, and pulled her shirt off completely. Her very trim and well-muscled frame was enclosed in the metal harness, the chains wrapped in wires, and securely strapped to her torso. John flinched at the sight of the spikes driven into her chest, directly over her heart. She had stopped bleeding from the injuries, but the area was red and bruising. She was obviously unconcerned with infection. She wasn't planning on living that long.

She walked to Sherlock and John without fear. She came straight to them, and stood within arm's reach. John held his breath as she met Sherlock's eyes. John could smell the blood on her skin, she was so close.

"Do hurry, I don't think London has long." She whispered, as Sherlock dropped John's hand. The detective moved slowly around the younger Moriarty, his eyes intent. He looked at every inch of the harness, and John knew he was assessing for weaknesses.

"Why haven't you just taken your own life?" Sherlock asked. "You are so determined to die, why not just do it?"

"Excellent question." Jaime replied, and she smiled as Sherlock came around to her front, his eyes on the small device attached to the harness. "It isn't fun if I go alone."

Sherlock stepped into her personal space, and she let him. She could kill Sherlock right now if she wanted, but she let him as close as he chose to get. She did nothing.

"Ah. Alone." Sherlock said, his voice a deep whisper. "For that is exactly what you have been, these last few years. Alone."

"Yes." Her voice just as low. John had to strain to hear her. "Tell me Sherlock. For a man who was so steadfastly asexual and uninterested in other humans on an intimate level, how did you get so many people to love you?"

John moved closer, until Sherlock held out his hand, stilling him.

"That's it, isn't it? Your brother. His obsession with me. He showed to me, in his own twisted way, a level of attention, even affection, that he had only ever shown you before. Jealous?"

"Angry. He left me for you. To finish your game. He wanted you, Sherlock. Not me. I was forgotten." Jaime spit it out, and tears ran from her eyes. The tears mixed with the blood, and bloody drops fell from her face, to her chest. She pulled back, and turned her back on them. She walked away, and stopped, head down. "He was forgotten. He was the best in the world, Sherlock. The world was his. I was his."

John gripped the gun in his hand, as she shifted on her feet. The quiet lethargy from earlier was leaving, and he heard the deep timber of something powerful in her voice. The shotgun was on the floor, just a foot away from her. She might go for it if Sherlock refused to kill her.

"And in his determination to win, he chose the surest way to get it. By attacking your heart. By forcing your compliance. He thought to win by forcing you to die. And in doing so, he took his life to insure you did. I am merely attempting to do the same. Except I know better. You will only ever do such a thing again if it means saving lives. On such a large scale, that you'll have no choice but to die for real."

She turned back to them, and John saw the mobile in her hand. She looked at the screen, then tucked it back in her pocket. She was still crying, but it was impossible to hear her tears in her voice.

"Another bomb just went off, Sherlock." She didn't react. "I think it best we move this along. There's no way for me to know which bomb is where. For all I know, the Old Bailey just went up in flames. Or it could be the pool. Or even St Bart's."

"We die, here and now, and the world will bleed and suffer. I have burned the heart of England. Your loss will be another wound, for this country, your family, and your devoted friends. They will go on living, and the pain of the last week will tear at them forever. And my pain will be over."

John was shaking his head. She was insane. Completely gone. She was an ever changing mix of cold-blooded disciple, and heartbroken little sister. John felt like he was trapped in a room with a rapid animal, one that used to be a cherished family pet.

"I kill you. End your pain. We die with you." Sherlock murmured. "We die with you so you won't be alone."

She didn't reply. Just stared at Sherlock, and her tears continued to fall.

"But you weren't alone, Jaime. Someone got through to you. She touched your heart. Once that happened, you were no longer alone. I should know." Sherlock's voice was soothing, and calm. There was no trace of anger. Sherlock was trying to talk her down from the edge she seemed to be hovering on, as if she were about to jump. "You aren't alone anymore."

"Mary." Jaime whispered. John saw the pain on her face, and with a sinking feeling, saw the heartbreak. Jaime loved Mary. Jaime Moriarty loved Mary Morstan.

"Yes, Mary. You aren't alone, Jaime. She may have chosen to help John, but she didn't want you to die. You left her no choice, in the end. I heard her beg you to stop. She cares for you."

"She chose him over herself! He broke her heart! He left her." Jaime accused, her eyes flashing fire, looking at John before she returned her eyes to the detective. "He left her for you!"

John struggled not to show his surprise, his shock. His confusion. Why did she care that John had left Mary?

"Everyone leaves. The ones we love. They never stay. She…. She isn't important right now. She's gone, I sent her away." Jaime whispered, and John slowly put both hands on the gun grip. There was something in her eyes he didn't like. Her fingers were wrapping around the hilt of her knife.

_Dear God, is Sherlock getting through to her? Is she wavering? Is Sherlock really talking her down? My God, has he really learned that much?_

"Don't die, deactivate the bombs. Don't hurt Mary, Jaime. You die, she'll mourn you." Sherlock had out, palm up. As if he were beseeching her to listen, to stop the madness. "Turn it off, Jaime."

"No." She didn't sound so sure. "She doesn't care, she can't care about me. I am a monster, Sherlock."

"Mary isn't in the boathouse, Jaime. You die, this building goes up, and Mary might die too." Sherlock was calm, and there was a level of compassion in his voice John had never heard from the detective before. "You spared her earlier, because of what she told you. Don't kill her, Jaime."

_What did Mary tell her? Does Mary love her too? Then why help me? Why help Sherlock?_

"Yes, I did. I've never done that before." She whispered. She was confused, and she had an expression that clearly said she wasn't wholly aware of what was going on. She was lost. Jaime was gripping her knife, one hand tight around the handle. "I've never shown mercy."

"Why did you show mercy?" Sherlock asked, and he took a step closer. He was less than ten feet from her now. "Can you tell me why?"

"I couldn't kill her. Not after what she told me. I've never hesitated…..." Jaime whispered. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. Tears ran down her face, washing away the blood. She was holding the knife so tightly her knuckles were white. "And she asked me too. I wanted to make her happy, that's why I spared the hostages. I didn't need her, not after the club. I could have done this all without her. But I didn't want to….."

"Doesn't matter anymore. None of this matters. I thought to make you do it. Kill me. Kill us all. But I can see you won't. Why won't you? London is burning." Jaime looked out the nearest door, and she could see the fires in the far distance. She blinked, and John saw an emotion sweep across her face.

"You won't because you love John too much. You won't kill him. I am a fool, it seems. You love John too much to kill him. You're willing to let the world burn to spare him. But I don't love him. I don't love you."

"I loved James. I love Mary. Both left me, chose you over me. Everyone loves you, Sherlock. No more….." Her voice trailed off. John saw her intention too late. It was in her eyes. Her need to end the pain. "He's been waiting for me."

"If you won't do it, I will." Jaime didn't go for the shotgun. She went for her knife, and she was out of their reach.

Jaime raised the silver blade, backing away from them as she did. John brought up the gun, but Sherlock was in his line of fire. Sherlock darted forward, trying to stop her as she brought the knife to her throat. He was too far away to stop her.

He was too far away, but Mary wasn't.

Mary came out from the darkness of the open door behind Jaime, and struck. One arm went around Jaime's neck, the other snapping out, stopping the blade's decent to the younger woman's throat. The edge was at her throat, and Mary twisted her grip. The blade fell, and Mary kicked Jaime's feet out from under her, dropping them both to their knees.

John and Sherlock ran forward, but the look on Mary's face made them stop just out of reach. Mary sank her arm deep in Jaime's neck, bracing it with her now free arm. The chokehold was set, and not matter how she struggled, Jaime succumbed. She went limp, and Mary immediately released her. Mary supported the younger woman in her arms, and she felt for the pulse at her neck.

"She's alive. She'll be out for a few minutes." Mary said, glaring at Sherlock. Her expression was a mix of regret and relief. "If you know how to get this off, Sherlock, do it now."

"Excellent timing, Mary. I'm glad to see I was right." Sherlock said, voice low and distracted as he eyed the harness.

Sherlock crouched beside the women, John next to him. John reached out, and took Jaime's pulse at her wrist. It was strong. She wouldn't be out for long. Mary held Jaime, braced up on her chest. Her arms held the madwoman, cradling her. Much as Sherlock had held John after pulling him from the fire. As Mary had just pulled Jaime from the flames.

John looked at Mary, and the realization of how much he truly didn't know about this woman came over him again. She had disarmed and knocked out the most dangerous, violent person he had ever met. And she had done it with ease.

Sherlock was examining every inch of the harness, his fingers tracing the metal links, the wires.

"Tell me what you know, Mary."

"Break any of the connections, the bombs all explode. Here, and in London. The only way for the London bombs to stop is if she dies. It's programmed to recognize her heartbeat, so we can't fool it. Even if we could remove the spikes without it going off, which we can't."

"There's a touchpad. Did she enter a code?" Sherlock murmured.

"I didn't see her enter one, though it would make sense if there was a failsafe." Mary replied, her hands brushing hair out of the unconscious woman's face. "She was cautious with her explosives."

"Excellent. Now we just need to know what it is. And I doubt she'll tell us." Sherlock sat back on his heels, and he got that look on his face. His 'I have an idea and it's crazy but it always works' face.

"Sherlock, no rush, but another bomb should be going off here in a few minutes." John said, and he looked out the windows. The fires in London were visible from here. John stiffened, and thought he saw movement.

"Shit." John stood, and raised the gun. "There's someone out there."

There were two shadows moving, coming from the corner of the lawn, guns up and heading their way. And they weren't friendlies.

"Get down!" John shoved at Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him down over the fallen woman and Mary.

John strode towards the door, staying well back from the opening, behind the wall. He had a clear shot, and he took it. Satisfaction came roaring out of him as the first man dropped, a harsh scream of pain coming out from the dark. John ducked behind the wall, and looked out. The remaining guard was firing back, but his aim was atrocious. The shots kept hitting the wall, and John sank down to one knee, and came out from behind the wall just long enough to shoot. This shot was as clean as the first, and the second man dropped. John scanned the lawn, and saw no one else.

_Why hasn't that sniper fired at me?_

"There was a sniper out there, but I'm not dead." John got up and returned to the group huddled on the floor.

"Already dead, Mary killed them." Sherlock murmured, and John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mary. He wasn't going to ask.

Sherlock had the small tablet in his hands, and he seemed to make up his mind about something. John watched, heart pounding, as his detective entered a code into the device.

**Mary**

There was an angry beep, and Sherlock growled in frustration. John looked down, and saw the panel read **Incorrect Code: Two Attempts Remaining.**

"Explain, Sherlock." John asked his lover. _How is Mary's name the failsafe?_

"No time to explain, this should be it. I know what the failsafe is. I know it." Sherlock grumbled.

"Um, try again? It's not deactivated. I know you can do it." John kept looking out the windows. He saw something, a light in the distance, over the river. John stepped closer to the doors, and smiled.

"Your brother is on his way. Reinforcements are incoming." John wanted to shout.

"Mary, you must be gone before he gets here." Sherlock said to the blonde assassin. John tossed his lover a look, not understanding.

"Sherlock, the bombs! Worry about me after!" Mary yelled at Sherlock.

"Fine! I'll do it again." Sherlock typed in a code. The angry beep came again, loud in the room.

**A.G.R.A**

"Sherlock! Are we going to explode if you get it wrong again?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock was calm. Eyes intent on the face of the slumbering madwoman. Sherlock raised his eyes to Mary. She was looking down at the unconscious woman in her arms, and he watched as she pressed a kiss to her brow. Mary cared. John didn't know what to make of the whole mess, and he was getting ready to grab Sherlock and Mary, pull them out of this hellish place, and shoot Moriarty from the lawn.

"Mary." Sherlock had that tone in his voice. The one he gets when he sees the truth, a clue long ignored. Something so obvious it takes forever to see it.

"What?!" Mary was at the end of her vaulted patience.

"What's your real name? Does she know it?" Sherlock asked. John held his breath. There's no way that was going to work. The other names hadn't worked. Mary nodded, and her eyes widened.

"Amelia." Mary whispered. Sherlock reached out, and without hesitation, punched in the name.

The beep this time was sweeter, happier. The device hummed, and went dark. The power turned off, and Sherlock reached for the harness. John was in disbelief, looking down as his lover unclasped a buckle.

Nothing happened. No explosions. No roaring wave of fire, no pain, no instant death by being blown apart. It was over.

"Oh thank God." John breathed, and fell to his knees next to Sherlock.

"Not quite, John. But I understand your confusion." Sherlock grinned at him, and John started to laugh. Only Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John sat on the floor, gun in hand, and laughed. He watched as a helicopter came into view over the river, hovering. Its spotlight pointed down to the water, lighting up a boat below. The helicopter dipped slightly, before lifting up towards the house. It flew overhead, and John knew it was looking for a place to land.

"Mycroft is here, Sherlock." John gasped out. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder, and his detective brought a cold hand to his face. John grabbed it, warming it between his hands.

Mary still held Jaime, her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, cradling the unconscious woman tenderly. Mary sniffled, and buried her face in the rich brown hair.

"What of Jaime?" Mary whispered. She didn't look at them, couldn't look at them.

"Jail." John said. "She's Mycroft's mess now."

"He'll not show her the mercy she needs. I know she doesn't deserve any, but she needs compassion." Mary murmured.

"Mary, you must go." Sherlock stood, and faltered.

John got up, and Sherlock didn't complain as John moved under his shoulder, and took some of his weight.

"And you need to go to the hospital." John scolded the detective, who tossed him a cranky look. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his doctor, and John just grinned.

"Mary, go." Sherlock urged the blonde assassin.

Mary hugged the younger woman, still knocked out cold in her arms. She lifted the fair face, covered in dried blood, and kissed her lips. John wanted to look away, uncomfortable. He didn't know how to handle the woman in front of him. He had no idea why she changed sides, why she helped them. She obviously cared for Jaime Moriarty a great deal. So why did she turn from her?

"Mary? Why did you help me, help us?" John asked. He was so confused.

Mary looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes. Something that made John afraid to know the answer. Mary stood, and grabbed the younger woman by her wrists. Mary pulled, and gently dragged the assassin to the large metal cage next to the wall. She didn't answer, and she glared at John when he made to go help her. He stopped, and held Sherlock. Mary lowered Jaime down, and ran her fingers over her blood streaked forehead. Mary pulled off her tight black jacket, and draped it over the half-naked woman at her feet. She left the cage, and shut and locked the door behind her.

"I helped you because I'm pregnant." Mary turned to John as she said it, face calm. Waiting.

John felt like he had just gotten sucker punched. Her words ran through him like ice water, exploding in his gut and making him hold on to Sherlock for support. He couldn't think. Mary was pregnant. She was carrying his child. He had no words; his world was turned upside down. He saw her anew. He saw her wounds, the bruises, the tired planes of her pretty face. She was so strong, and immeasurably capable of taking care of herself, and yet John wanted nothing more than to keep her here. Keep her safe. She was pregnant. With his baby.

"Mary, you must leave." Sherlock told her again. "Mycroft will arrest you, he will have no choice."

"I know." Mary took one last look at the young woman in the cage, and walked over to them.

John wasn't expecting it. She came to them, and hugged them both. She burrowed her face between Sherlock's shoulder and John's face, and held tight. John reached up, and put his hand behind her head, holding her to them. She was shaking, bloody, hurt, and tired. She was pregnant. John didn't know what he was feeling, but it took everything he had to let her go as she pulled back.

Sherlock leaned down, and whispered something in her ear. John could hear the helicopter landing next to the river, and John knew it was almost too late for Mary to escape. Sherlock was right, she had to go. The government would show her no mercy, pregnant or not. John couldn't hear what Sherlock said to her, but she smiled at him. Her blue eyes were dry, and the shadows were gone. She pulled away from them, walked to the long table. She picked up a small black box, and grabbed a duffel bag from beneath the table, out of a crate. She walked out into the night without looking back. John watched her until she disappeared.

* * *

Jaime's head hurt. Her eyes refused to work right. Her pulse was pounding in her skull, and her neck hurt. She dragged in a deep breath, and felt the spikes in her chest tear at her muscles. The pain nudged at her mind, and she opened her eyes. She coughed, and the pain from doing so drove the fog away. She curled up on her side on the cold wood floor, and coughed hard. There was fresh blood on her chest, and she peered downwards. The spikes were still in her, but the harness was gone. A black jacket was covering her like a blanket.

She looked up, and saw Dr Watson and Holmes talking quietly to each other a few feet away. They glanced at her, but paid no further attention to her. As if she didn't matter anymore. She stay curled up on the floor, and watched. More fools, they. She wasn't helpless, not yet. She would not spend the rest of her life in a cage, to be put down like a dog after months of torture. Mycroft Holmes would be ruthless with her. She knew she could handle whatever he chose to do to her. It wasn't a matter of surviving; it was a matter of free will, of controlling her own life, her own end. A very long time ago she had made herself a promise to never be helpless to another man. Only James was worth trusting, following, despite his choice to leave her.

_Mary. I know it was Mary. She knocked me out. She is the only one who could get close enough to me. Where is she? _

Jaime looked around, eyes searching everywhere, but there was no sign of the blonde assassin. Mary was gone. She watched Dr Watson, who kept looking out the glass doors, down the hill. Jaime could hear the sound of a helicopter, and she figured out where Mary was. Or rather, why she wasn't still here. Mycroft Holmes was here. And he would not spare Mary Morstan, no matter her current condition.

Jaime cautiously lifted her head, being careful not to telegraph her movements. She was able to see the long table, and the black box was gone. Mary had taken her new aliases.

_Good. Go Mary. Run. I hope you're far enough away by now. I'm not mad._

Jaime lay her head back down, and rested. The large crates nestled against the side of the crate obstructed her view, so she couldn't see the elder Holmes as he entered the ballroom. She tugged at the black jacket that covered her torso, and caught a whiff of Mary's perfume from the fabric. Jaime brought it to her face, and breathed it in. She wrapped it closer around her, and buried her face in the jacket, her eyes just peaking above the collar.

She saw John and Sherlock turn to the doors, and could hear Mycroft call out to his brother. The Iceman may play it cool, but nothing got to him faster than his brother. So very obvious, the love he felt for his sibling. Let them distract each other. A security team swept in the room, and she heard John tell them that there were another six or so men left on site that were unaccounted. Good, let them leave. The team cleared the ballroom, heading into the other parts of the house.

_You are such fools. Now all three of you are here. All three shall pay. Feel the fire._

"She doesn't look so dangerous, now." Mycroft Holmes asked. She ignored the men standing outside the bars, looking down at her. She just watched them, giving no reaction to their words. She was cold, the blood soaking every part of her drying uncomfortably. She was glad for the brief comfort offered by Mary's jacket. "Is she secure in there?"

"Yes. She can't get out, I checked the cell, and it's secure." Sherlock replied, and he leaned on John. Her eyes were narrow slits, but she could see the exhaustion on Holmes' face. Whatever he had given himself was wearing off.

"She shall stay there then until the grounds are clear. It's time we got you out of here." Mycroft cocked a brow at the doctor, who nodded in agreement. They both held on to Sherlock, who had started to stumble on his feet. He was weakening and fast.

_Good. Get weaker Sherlock. So weak you can't run. I refuse to be anyone's prisoner._

She waited until they had turned their focus to the detective. None of them heard her as she came to her feet, carefully pulling the jacket on. Her hands paused as she zipped up the jacket, pressed to a pocket. She grinned.

Jaime backed up until her shoulders came in contact with the bars behind her. She sucked in a deep breath, and sprinted for the opposite side of the cage. Sherlock heard her, and the others held him up as he almost spilled on the floor. She screamed as she leapt, her booted feet flying between the bars of the cage, crashing into the side of the large crate flush against the cell. It was the same crate she was looking in before she attached the harness earlier in the day. She knew what was in there.

The side of the crate collapsed, and her boots made solid contact with the metal casing of the very large bomb inside. The men outside the cage could do nothing. Sherlock was attempting to get to her, but the other crates kept them away. John had his arms full of his detective, and Mycroft was yelling uselessly for some of his men. She pulled back a leg, and kicked again, screaming a roar of rage and pain. The casing snapped away from the timer, and she reached through the bars, into the void of the break, and grabbed a handful of wires. She screamed again, and pulled.

She came away with a fistful of wires, and the bomb gave off a beep. Loud enough to silence Mycroft. John and Sherlock were thunderstruck, and she laughed. She pointed to the timer. It was counting down. Less than two minutes.

"_Burn in hell, you bastards!" _She threw the Off Switch wires at the men frozen in shock. "Shut that one off, Sherlock Holmes!"

Jaime laughed, letting go of the remnants of her control. She laughed so hard she couldn't stop. Pain, loss, rage, love. Triumph. All swept at her mind, and Jaime Moriarty embraced them all.

_I lost, only to win. Goodbye, James._

_Goodbye, Mary._

* * *

"Run!" John grabbed Sherlock around the waist, and pulled him to the door. The detective was in shock, staring at the crazy woman laughing her ass off in the cage. Where she was supposed to be helpless. She just managed to kill them all. John pushed Mycroft, and the MI6 man stumbled out of the ballroom. John dragged Sherlock, taking all his weight, and he pushed Mycroft until the man began to run on his own.

John didn't hesitate. He took a better grip of Sherlock, and ran them down the large hill towards the river. He could see Mycroft on his radio just ahead of them, hopefully ordering his men out of the house. Two minutes. Most likely less than one minute now. John kept going until they hit the shore, and he didn't stop until he felt the cold tide waters of the river lapping at his feet.

John pulled Sherlock down. Just in time. The night sky was lit up as the manor exploded. The ballroom shattered from within, a massive shockwave sweeping out from the hilltop. The noise was beyond anything John had ever heard. It was the deafening roar of hellfire, and John could feel the shockwave smack them, even at this distance. John held Sherlock down, covering his detective with his own body. The sky was on fire. Everything was burning. The ground shook, and trembled. There was no sound beyond the roar of the explosion, the hissing of flames. Debris fell from the sky, and John covered Sherlock as best he could. He felt some small, and some not so small pieces of debris fall on his back, and around them. He didn't flinch, just kept Sherlock covered.

He stayed like that, and looked in the gorgeous eyes of his detective. Sherlock was in pain, and worry was etched across his face. Sherlock tried to get out from under John, seeing the debris falling on his doctor. John held fast, and covered Sherlock. John didn't care about the debris and flames falling around them. He didn't feel the cold water of the Thames washing over their feet. All he saw and felt was the man he sheltered in his arms. John lowered his head, and captured Sherlock's lips with his. He kissed his detective, and let the world burn around them.


	34. From Ashes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: SADNESS! Tears, aches, and feels. And some happy moments too.**

**Next chapter drops on Wedns./Thursday.**

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Four**

"_**From Ashes"**_

John sheltered Sherlock as the world was destroyed around them. He covered his lover as Blackwood Manor fell from the sky, in pieces clothed by white fire. John stubbornly refused to let Sherlock up, and he knew his detective was pissed, as the curses had flown once John stopped kissing him. It wasn't until the earth stilled, and the air went quiet, that John raised his head, and looked around. Mycroft was several feet away, huddled between some large rocks on the shoreline, surrounded by small fires. John and Sherlock were in the surf, their legs soaking wet. Smoke was caught up in the wind from the river, thankfully blowing away from them.

The boathouse was relatively intact, if you looked past the fact that the front of it was caved in, and burning merrily in the night. John was convinced the girls were still in there until Sherlock had forcibly taken him by his shoulders and pointed him out to the river. He saw a boat, and it was coming closer to land. He saw the girls on the boat, waving to them where they stood on the shore.

John waved back in relief, and helped Sherlock find a dry place to sit. John pulled his broken and weak detective to his chest, both of them huddling under Sherlock's coat. They hadn't spoken, just pressed their faces together, drawing strength and reassurance from the other's presence. John would randomly kiss Sherlock's face, and Sherlock bore up under the affection well, not at all perturbed by his big brother looking at them in askance.

John let Sherlock rest on his chest, his arms, supporting his detective as he fought to breathe normally. John put a gentle hand to his ribs, and felt the breaks. John adjusted his hold on Sherlock, and helped take the pressure off his chest. Sherlock had rested easier, letting John take care of him while they waited for the fires to subside. Burning debris surrounded them, making it hazardous to leave the rocky shoreline.

Mycroft ignored them, muttering something about 'lovebirds' and 'involved' under his breath. John ignored the MI6 man right back, only listening whenever Mycroft got updates from his people over the radio as they cleared the area. His men had made it out of the house in time. There was no sign of anyone else having survived the blast.

Jaime Moriarty was dead. There was no way she could have escaped the cell, and made it out of the manor. She was dead, and she had nearly taken them all with her.

The helicopter had taken off when Mycroft had alerted his people to the imminent explosion, and was circling overhead. Mycroft had picked himself up off the beach, dialed a number on his mobile, and within minutes, the entire nation descended on the burning hill.

* * *

The fire was a scene of chaos. Emergency personnel, law enforcement officers, and assorted dozens of other agencies cluttered the hillside. The river was swarming with boats, lights illuminating the hill, and the burning carcass of Blackwood Manor. It was a house that had held evil, and now the fires consumed it utterly, destroying the legacy of Blackwood and the children he tormented. Even the stone walls were burning. John could see the flames from where he was sitting, through the trees of the manor's park.

The fire was so intense that the crews couldn't get near enough to douse the flames. Whatever Moriarty had kept in the manor was refusing to go out. It was likely the remaining incendiaries were at fault for the stubbornness of the burn. Reports of people being able to see the fire as far away as London were flooding local police dispatches. Mycroft had ordered the crews back, declaring it unsafe to approach, and that containment be the priority. It was helpful that the cold autumn night was damp, and small storm system was predicted to hit within the next hour.

Mycroft had told him that the bombs in the city had stopped going off, and his people were finding them all over. The men who had been guarding them were gone, faded away in the shadows. Half of the bombs hadn't detonated, and each one had three to four guards with them. That meant a good number of Moriarty's guard was still out there. The third bomb hadn't detonated. Mycroft told him that Scotland Yard reported that DI Lestrade had stopped that one from going off. It had been on the roof of St Bart's. John had been proud to hear it, and he wondered where Greg was now. Hopefully someone had told him Donovan was alive. With any luck, he would still be at Bart's. The bomb had been cleared, and the hospital was busy accepting patients from all over the city.

John sat beside Sherlock in an ambulance, as his very hurt and cranky detective argued with the medic. The paramedic was demanding to know what drugs Sherlock had taken on his very risky rescue, and Sherlock's answer of 'I don't know' and 'It worked, does it matter?' just made the poor man even more flustered. John had no trouble seeing Sherlock take a drug he had no clue about. John sighed, and leaned back. This was going to be a great evening. The ambulance was one of many parked along the manor's long drive, and John was impatient for them to be getting to the hospital.

"Stop pestering me, man! Good God, I'm fine! And never mind the blood I keep coughing up, it's my blood, I'll cough it up if I choose!" Sherlock growled, and John finally had enough.

"Sherlock." John said to his detective. Sherlock looked at him, and John stared him down. Sherlock opened his mouth, but the expression on John's face made him snap it shut. He flopped back down on the stretcher, and took the oxygen mask from the paramedic without complaint. His eyes told another story. John smiled at his detective, knowing he'd get an earful from him at the first chance he got.

Sherlock was beyond stubborn. He had recovered some of his strength once he got carried to the ambulance, and John had no doubt that the quietly sweet and cooperative Sherlock from the riverside was a rarity. His grumpy detective would be fine, but his attitude most likely wouldn't improve until he was weeks into recovery.

"I'm going to go check on the others, stay here. I'll be riding with you to the hospital." John got a nod of confirmation from the medic. John had informed him that he was Sherlock's physician, as boyfriend status didn't mean much when it came to patient care. "I'll be right back. Behave."

Sherlock didn't answer, just crossed his arms carefully over his chest and slumped on the stretcher. John smiled, and hopped down from the back of the ambulance. He looked back a few times, just to make sure Sherlock wasn't following.

John had a bandage on his forehead, but the gash wasn't bleeding much anymore. He would see about stitches after the more grievously injured people were taken care of. He'd most likely stitch it himself. He had repaired the state of his clothing, and his shirt collar was high enough to hide the bite marks on his neck. John sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, and dispelled as best he could the sick feeling in his gut. He had stopped them. He was fine. He would be fine.

John walked to the next ambulance, and peeked around the corner of the open doors. Anthea was sitting on a stretcher, and John bit back a smile at seeing Mycroft sitting next to her. She was staring in her boss's face like he was the one who had come back from the dead, and not her. John heard her call Mycroft 'sir', and the look that came into his eyes as she did made John shift on his feet.

_Oh wow. Don't know how that's going to play out. He loves her, but I know he cares about Greg too. Oh man, that's gonna be messy._

John backed away, leaving them alone. He went down to the next ambulance, and looked in. Donovan and Molly sat inside, and Molly gasped as she saw him. He jumped up inside, and sat next to her on the bench seat. Donovan was on the stretcher, holding a soft towel and an icepack to the back of her head.

"Helps with the pain." Donovan grumbled, and she tried smiling at him, but she just dropped her eyes and looked miserable. The stress of the last few days was over, and she didn't know how to act around him. John looked at her, and knew it was as good a time as any.

"Sally." She looked up at him, and he caught her gaze. "It's all okay now. All of it."

She held her breath, and didn't say anything. She nodded once. It looked like she might start crying, which he wouldn't blame her for one bit.

"Have you gotten hold of Greg yet?" John asked her.

"I used Violet's phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I guess he's too busy in the city, what with the bombs and all." Sally sniffled, and wiped at her eyes.

"Hey now, no tears. Mycroft can find him, and have him meet you at the hospital. We're all going to the same place, he'll meet us there. Don't worry, he'll be beyond happy to see you." John told her, and he reached out, and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"How's Sherlock?" Molly asked him, her eyes showing her worry.

"His lung and ribs are a mess, but he'll be okay now. I'm dragging him back to the hospital. We'll see you both there. I should go before he drives his medic insane." John hugged Molly, and waved to Sally as he hopped down. John walked out on the drive farther, peering around Anthea's ambulance to Sherlock's. His detective was still in there, and John stifled a laugh as the poor medic took more verbal abuse from the injured man. He walked down the drive, stopping briefly at the next ambulance.

Mycroft saw him this time, and John nodded to him. Mycroft looked remarkably spiffy for a man would had just run from a house as it exploded behind them. Only Mycroft.

"Has anyone told Lestrade that Donovan is alive?" John asked Mycroft. The MI6 man's brows rose, and John took that as a no. "Someone might want to warn him, so that seeing Sally doesn't give him a heart attack."

Mycroft grimaced, and pulled out his mobile.

"I'll see you at the hospital. I have to go save Sherlock's medic." John smiled at Anthea, ignoring the look on her face as she stared at Mycroft.

"John Watson is my doctor, no one else. Leave me be." Sherlock was trying to shout, but he couldn't suck in enough air to manage the volume he normally commanded.

John walked up to the ambulance that held the love of his life, and climbed back in. Sherlock promptly shut up, and went back to glaring at the medic.

"It's alright, I've got him. We need to be going soon, please." John told the medic, who didn't bother to hide his relief.

"The roads are clearing out now, we should be out of here in a few minutes." The medic went to the front of the ambulance, leaving John alone with Sherlock.

John quickly leaned over, pulled down the oxygen mask, and planted a soft kiss on his detective's lips before sitting back down. Sherlock blinked at him, and John smirked as he readjusted the mask on his face.

"You better not be leaving without me! That'd be some kinda gratitude!" A woman called from the shadows next to the ambulance. John sat up, as he recognized the voice. It was the American woman, and she sounded in person exactly as she did on the phone. John hadn't met her yet, as she had disappeared in the shadows after bringing the boat with the girls back to shore.

A tall, slender, and very fit raven-haired woman came up to the back door of the ambulance. John found himself staring at the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen. Aside from Sherlock's, of course. Her eyes were an unbelievable shade of purple, and from this angle, he knew it wasn't from contacts. She was young, a few years younger than Sherlock, most likely mid to late twenties. She grinned at him, and tossed a small bag up on the bench seat next to him. She leaped in after it, and sat where the medic had been.

"Hey Sexy." Violet Hunter grinned at him, and John struggled to find his tongue. It was like he was looking at a female version of Sherlock. Her skin was tanned, and her eyes were a different shade. But the similarities were there. The resemblance was in the way she moved, and her dark hair. It was in the way she held herself, and how her eyes scanned him from head to toe, missing nothing.

"Oh, Sherlock, he's cute. Too bad I'm gay. And too bad you don't share. Now that Anthea chick? Wow. Totally my type. Is she dating Mycroft too? Cuz that'll be weird with him dating Lestrade. So when are we leaving? Aren't you still injured?" Violet kept talking, randomly addressing Sherlock while looking John up and down. She kindly ignored the marks on his neck, even though she saw them. Sherlock said nothing, just watched with a smirk as John tried to adjust to her presence.

"Um, hi." It was all John could say to her. _Mycroft was dating Lestrade? How long was I missing? _

"Don't mind me, Sexy. I'm just gonna nap while we drive to the hospital. I'm not missing the rest of this night for anything." She promptly propped her feet up next to Sherlock's hip on the stretcher, crossed her arms over her chest, and let her head fall back. She was gently snoring almost immediately.

John looked at Sherlock, and his jaw almost hit the floor when he saw Sherlock reach out, and rub a hand on the foot nearest to him. It looked like she might've grinned, but the tiny snores continued. Sherlock pulled his hand away, and snapped John out of his surprise by reaching for his doctor. John clasped his hand tightly. The doors shut, and John heard the vehicles up and down the drive start pulling out. Hopefully the trip back to the hospital wouldn't take too long.

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade was dying. The bomb guard's bullet had torn through his side, just above his kidney, and out his back. He was bleeding out from massive internal injuries. It hadn't helped him that he was on the roof of a hospital when he got shot. The staff had been in the middle of evacuating, and by the time the process was called off, and appropriate staff cornered, he was almost past the point of saving. He had been in surgery now for nearly four hours, and the staff was warning that it could be hours left before he was done. If he made it that long.

Mycroft Holmes stood outside the surgery doors, as close as he could get without actually being in the room as the surgeons operated on the DI. After John had asked him to notify Lestrade about Donovan being alive, he had tried several times to call him. He had started to grow concerned after the second call went unanswered. Lestrade always answered when he called. Always.

It wasn't until they got to the hospital, and Anthea was taken into surgery herself to repair her hand, that Mycroft had learned where Lestrade was. He had been standing in the doorway of his little brother's private suite, listening to John Watson override Sherlock's complaints, and make him submit to being examined. Mycroft had been impressed, as Sherlock had pouted, but allowed the doctors to look him over. Mycroft had been about to call Lestrade again, when he heard two police officers walking by, talking about how the bomb on the roof had been disarmed. They had said it was DI Lestrade, which Mycroft knew already, who had disarmed it. It was the next part of the conversation he heard that made his heart stop. Lestrade had been shot by one of the suspects.

He didn't even remember running for the nearest nurse, demanding to know where DI Lestrade was. He didn't remember running through the hospital, to the surgery suites. He didn't remember the security guards attempting to stop him. Mycroft's people had seen him running, and followed behind him as he searched for his own detective. The operatives had cleared the way for him, and Mycroft hadn't stopped until he was right outside the doors where Greg was. He could see the surgeons working over him through the glass panes on the doors.

Mycroft couldn't handle what he was feeling. He didn't know what he was feeling. His chest felt hollow. As if his heart wasn't inside him anymore. It was in that room. His hands were cold, and he couldn't swallow without feeling the urge to be sick. He didn't feel strong enough to stand, yet he couldn't make his feet move. He didn't remember how to sit down, even if he could force himself away from that door.

Mycroft had no notion of how long he might've been standing there, watching as strangers worked to save the life of Gregory Lestrade.

"Mycroft." He twitched at the familiar voice. Of course he wouldn't stay in his room. He never did as he was told.

Mycroft voiced no objection as his little brother came up next to him. Sherlock stood so close their shoulders touched. The pressure was warm, and steady. Mycroft closed his eyes, and dropped his head. He concentrated on breathing, on the cold hospital air moving through him, in and out. It took all he had not to start crying. He would not cry. Once he started, he wouldn't stop.

Mycroft didn't object when he felt Sherlock lift an arm, and placed a hand on his shoulder. The two brothers waited together, saying nothing.

* * *

Violet Hunter snuck into Sherlock's hospital room, for the second time in forty-eight hours. This time Sherlock had a private suite, with a couch/bed thing that reminded her of a futon under the window, and actual real chairs next to the bed. And the bed was bigger too. She stopped next to the slumbering Doctor Watson, and propped her hands on her hips at the sight of the empty bed. It was well past dawn, and John was fast asleep in one of the chairs beside the bed. Sherlock was obviously not.

"John." She said, not bothering to be quiet. No response. "Sherlock's gone, John."

That got a reaction, and a fast one. John jumped up, rubbing his face. He swore at the sight of the empty bed, and glared at her.

"Whoa, Sexy. I didn't do it this time." She pulled out her mobile, and hacked the hospital security feeds. "I was at what's left of Baker Street getting you guys some clothing."

She found Sherlock in less time it took for John to look in the suite's bathroom.

"Found him, he's with Mycroft outside one of the surgeries."

"What? Who's in surgery? Anthea?" John asked, and she tossed him a bag full of slightly smoky clothing, and toiletries she'd swiped from the flat's bathroom. "And what do you mean, what's left of Baker Street?"

"Pick a question, and change while you ask." She didn't give him time to blink, just sat on Sherlock's bed, kicked off her boots, and watched the mad detective and his big brother on her mobile.

"Baker Street." John asked and she grinned as John looked at her, then at his clothes. He squinted at her, and she didn't bother hiding her mirth at his discomfort. She pointed at the bathroom, and he went to it with a slightly sheepish look on his face. He left the door slightly open as he changed. She only peeked a few times. He blushed every time he caught her, which only made her do it some more. She smirked to herself that he let her look, as he didn't close the door.

"The first bomb to explode last night was at Baker Street, the flats across from your place. Due to Mycroft's surveillance teams posted at your place, keeping it secure, the guards couldn't get close enough to it to actually blow up your flat. So they snuck as close as they could. The building across from your flat is just a pile of rubble."

"Oh dear God, Mrs. Hudson?" John poked his head out around the door, and she snickered at the sight of his bare chest. _Oh Sherlock, if I went for men, I'd be all over your doctor. Sexy indeed._

"We were able to warn everyone when Death activated the bombs, and since Mycroft's team was already there, they got her out, and evacuated the buildings. If they hadn't been there, everyone there would be dead." Violet went back to cyber stalking the Holmes brothers. Neither had moved. "Mycroft's people escorted her out of town to her sister's place."

"Oh, and you'll have to replace all the windows." She heard him sigh from the bathroom.

"You know, that's the second time a Moriarty has blown up our flat." John said. He came out looking better, having washed up while he was in there. The gash at his hairline had a neat row of stitches in it, and she guessed he had done it himself while she was gone. She looked him over with approval, and caught a glimpse of the marks on his neck. She didn't pretend not to see them, and didn't do him the false courtesy of offering up some cheesy platitude about how it'll get better with time. It never got better, it just stopped sucking as often.

"Hey, let's hope there isn't a third one." She smiled at him, and patted the bed next to her. She waved the mobile at him, and she was pleased when he came over. He hesitated for only a moment, before jumping up next to her. She gave him her mobile, and his reaction at seeing the camera feed of the Holmes brothers tickled her ego.

"You really are good, aren't you?" John murmured. "Is Sherlock holding Mycroft?"

"Yup, which is why we aren't going to interrupt them. I've been waiting to see that for over ten years." Violet sighed. "Took them long enough."

"Who's in surgery?" John asked, and she tossed him a look.

"Promise you won't go tearing down there. You can walk, slowly, and with patience. If not, stay here."

"What? Oh fine. I promise." John had a suspicious look on his face. She took her mobile back, and met his eyes.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Violet told him. Not sparing him, just stated it plainly. "He was shot disarming the bomb on top of this hospital." She was expecting him to leap off the bed, which is why she hold a hold of his hand before he even finished processing her words. She pulled him back to the bed, and wrapped an arm over his shoulders.

"Don't, John. You running down there won't help your friend. Let Sherlock and Mycroft muddle through right now. We'll know immediately if Sherlock needs you. We can watch them both from here, and keep vigil for Lestrade too. Just let them be. Mycroft doesn't look like he can handle more people right now."

John was glaring at her, but that didn't bother her one bit. She could handle Sherlock Holmes; John Watson was easy. John tried to make her cave, he really did, but to no avail.

"You are exactly like him." John huffed out, and fell back on the bed. She sat next to him, cross legged on the very comfy bed.

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Sexy." Violet gave him back the mobile, and she kept him company as they both watched over the Holmes brothers.

* * *

John lay on Sherlock's bed, watching the Holmes brothers on Violet's mobile. She had leaned over the side of the bed, and pulled out a small duffel bag from underneath it. She must have stashed it there sometime in the night without him noticing. She had an attitude of casual indifference to what was considered polite, and people's personal space. He peeked at her several times, and she noticed him doing it, but she didn't say anything. She just pulled out her laptop, and started tapping away at it.

John realized she was behaving like a more socialized version of Sherlock. She was younger, and he wondered if that played a part in her personality. He also had a sneaking suspicion she was a sociopath. Just like Sherlock.

"Yes, I'm nuts." She said out of the blue. Add mind reader to the list. Sherlock could do the same thing, know what you were thinking before you said it.

John jumped, and realized guiltily that he had been staring at her. She looked at him over the screen, and she grinned at his embarrassed expression.

"Sorry." John told the hacker, and he wondered if he should ask. "Are you two related? Cousins, or something?"

"Dunno. Never asked. I'm sure Sherlock did a DNA test at some point, but it never mattered all that much. Never thought it was important. It would explain why Mycroft tolerated me hanging out with Sherlock, though that could be my mad skills." She kept tapping at the keyboard, and John was fascinated. "People used to ask that all the time when I went to school here."

"Oh, did you to go to the same school? He's got a few years on you, how did you meet? But you're American, I mean that's kind of odd. Did your parents live here?"

"We went to the same university. I started during Sherlock's last year." Violet said, and she leaned back on the pillows behind her. She then picked up her feet, and John exhaled as she dropped her lower legs over his stomach. She really had no personal space issues. John just moved his arms, too distracted by this tiny piece of his detective's past to mind the girl as she used him like a body pillow. "I was fifteen, he was a year from graduating."

"Fifteen? At university already? Oh, wow. Good for you." John resisted the urge to interrogate her over Sherlock. His detective as a very young man was something John couldn't fathom. Was he worse, or better? What had he done to keep his talents under control? And just how close were Violet and his detective?

"Meh, no big deal. Hacked my way in, stuck around for the interesting stuff, and the company." She didn't see his shocked expression. "Didn't have any family, been on my own for two years by that point. I had already seen the entirety of the States, so I looked further. My mother was British, so I was curious. Picked a school here that sounded like fun, and got myself enrolled."

"What?" John was totally absorbed in what he was hearing. "Really?"

"Yup. Met Sherlock after I snuck into one of the older student's classes, just to see what it was like. He'd seen me, and then followed me back to my dorm room. I was about to beat him up for being creepy when he spouted out my entire life story in less than two minutes. I was tickled pink, after I figured out he wasn't going to turn me in to the authorities."

"He never does what you'd expect, does he?" John said, and he cast a glance at the mobile. Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't moved. John figured he give it another thirty minutes before he dragged Sherlock back to bed. John wondered if he would be able to kick Violet out of Sherlock's bed for the detective to get some rest. He wouldn't be any use to Mycroft if he made himself worse. John felt a stab of worry in his heart. Lestrade had been in surgery for a long time. Soon it would be clear they wouldn't be able to save him if it went any longer.

"Nope. And maybe if we can keep Sherlock from taking any more swan dives off of hospitals, or confronting crazy arch nemeses, we'll all have a lifetime of having him surprise us."

* * *

Sherlock was exhausted. He had been awake now for over forty eight hours. Whatever rest he had gotten while in the hospital the first time had done little to help recharge his stores of energy.

He was tired, but he would rather pass out here in the hall than leave his brother. For the last few hours Sherlock had stood here with Mycroft, neither of them speaking. Just waiting, and watching a man fight for his life. Sherlock couldn't tell how he was feeling. He was a strange mix of despair, joy, fear, anger, and frustration. Happiness, too. He was happy because of John, and Molly. He was angry because Moriarty had blown herself up, almost killing them along with her. Sherlock knew the only reason he and Mycroft were both alive was because John had gotten them out in time. He was feeling what he thought might be joy, because his brother was letting him be there for him. Sherlock hadn't attempted it since they were very young. Since the last time Mycroft shot down his attempt at brotherly love, and shut him out.

And he felt despair, because for all his vaulted abilities, his talents, skill, boundless knowledge, he was useless right now. There was nothing he could do to save the life bleeding away in that room. The only thing Sherlock could do was try and remember what brothers were supposed to do for one another. It was all guesswork. He didn't know if he was helping Mycroft, or making it worse. His brother hadn't shrugged him off, so he felt it must be okay to touch him.

Sherlock didn't know if he was supposed to be able to feel all of that at once. If normal people did. He had never thought about it before, and he struggled not to let his mind get too absorbed in himself. Even he had a feeling that analyzing his emotional response to his brother's emotional response to him might not be appropriate right now.

Sherlock was seeing a part of his brother he hadn't seen in decades. Mycroft had a heart under all of that ice, he truly did. He just never let anyone close enough to see it. He froze out the world. Mostly because to him, everyone else was a goldfish. Too stupid to interact with. Not worth the bother. But there was something about Greg Lestrade that thawed Mycroft Holmes. Thawed him enough that the prospect of Lestrade dying shattered the ice. And left a man.

* * *

"Violet, I think they're done in there." John sat up, almost spilling the hacker on the floor. "Sorry. Got to go."

"Leave my cell! And I'll stay here." Violet caught her mobile as he tossed it from the door. "Keep Sherlock's bed warm."

John was past hearing her as he ran down the hall. The elevator showed up just as he was deciding to take the stairs. He was thankful it was empty, as he didn't think anyone would understand him punching the buttons for the surgery floor. Over and over.

John shot out in to the hall, and ran towards the doors to the inner sections of the surgery suites. Mycroft's people were stationed outside, and they saw him coming, opening a door for him. He burst through, and he had to lean back on his heels to keep from running into the brothers.

Sherlock was holding Mycroft's shoulder, and John came up to his detective and his brother just as a surgeon left the room where they had been operating on Lestrade.

"Tell me." Mycroft ordered, not giving the surgeon time to even comprehend why they were in this particular hallway.

"Excuse me, who are you? Are you family? We can't have you back here, this is a restricted area." The surgeon made to walk past, and John had to grab Sherlock as Mycroft pulled away from his brother, and got in the surgeon's way.

"You will tell me what his prognosis is, or I will have you grabbed from your bed in the middle of the night, beaten bloody, and left naked in a cold dark room for the rest of your life. _Tell me how he is!" _Mycroft ground out behind clenched teeth, and the surgeon paled at what he saw in the taller man's expression.

"Doctor, we're family. Please. We've been waiting for news since last night." John told the surgeon, hoping to diffuse the situation. He had no trouble lying if it got Mycroft answers. The surgeon gulped, and looked back and forth between the tall man in the very expensive suit, and the other two men in the hall. He decided he didn't want to take his chances, as the curly haired fellow was looking just as deadly as the icy one.

"Severe internal bleeding and damage, massive blood loss. He took a large caliber round at almost point blank range. The bullet lacerated an artery just above his kidney, but we were able to repair most of the damage, and stop the bleed. I'm sorry to tell you that he flat lined while we were operating. We did manage to revive him, but I wouldn't hold out much hope at this point. He's lost too much blood, and the damage is major. I'm having him moved to Recovery, and we'll see if he stabilizes within the next day. No visitors until he stabilizes." The surgeon looked at them all one more time, and scurried down the hall.

"Wretched bedside manner." John heard Sherlock grumble. Mycroft was leaning against a wall, and he was so pale John feared he was going to pass out.

"Mycroft! Breathe. Just take in air, and let it out." John told the MI6 man. John figured Sherlock was steady enough for the moment, and went to the elder Holmes. John grabbed Mycroft's shoulders, and squeezed them hard. John didn't need Mycroft passing out in the cold hallway. "Snap out of it. They're going to wheel him out of there any minute. Snap out of it. You need to see him. He's alive right now, Mycroft. He's alive."

John stared Mycroft hard in the yes, willing the elder Holmes to stay upright. He saw a flash of awareness past the shock and horror deep in Mycroft's eyes. John gripped harder, and shook him once, gently. Mycroft breathed, and he blinked. John met his eyes until Mycroft nodded slightly. John backed away, ready to catch him if he was to suddenly topple over.

Just in time. There was the rattle of wheels on tiled floors, and the doors to the surgery bay opened. Greg was covered in white blankets, attached to a respirator and so many IV lines it was hard to see where each one went. The bed he was in was like a fortress, and he was surrounded by nurses and doctors as they escorted him out. It was his face that made John put a hand over his mouth to hold back a sob. He was so white. As white as the blankets covering him. His fox-grey hair was the only thing about him that wasn't pale as new snow.

"Mycroft, he's alive. Just focus on that." John murmured to the man he was now holding up. "He's alive."

The three of them stood in the hall as Gregory Lestrade was wheeled down the hall, barely clinging to life. Mycroft was unable to tear his eyes away.

* * *

Violet watched the scene in the surgery hall from her mobile, and sniffled. John was a great guy. He took care of Mycroft like he took care of Sherlock, no thought for himself.

She looked over to her laptop, and saw the vitals of Gregory Lestrade displayed on the screen. The hospital had a fully networked care system that let anyone with the right access see the real time vitals of any patient hooked into the system. Or if you were Violet Hunter, then you saw all that and more. She typed in a few lines of code, and she would know instantly if the DI got better or worse. She put the program in the background, and went back to her original task.

She was hunting down all the leaks Moriarty had put in the government systems. Especially in MOD and MI5, MI6. Her traitor couldn't have done all of the damage she was seeing in the codes. Many of the backdoors, access ports, had been there for years. Some of them looked like they had been built into the codes at origination, as if whoever designed the code knew Moriarty would one day be accessing them. Which could very well be the case. Where there was one traitor, there could be more. Once Mycroft was back in fighting form she would tell him what she found.

Violet followed John and the Holmes brothers on her mobile, so she knew when Mycroft was deposited in Anthea's room, where the very pretty MI6 operative was sleeping. John was bringing Sherlock back to his room. It was almost lunch time, and Violet crinkled her nose at the thought of hospital food.

_Wonder if Sherlock would let me have his Jell-O. Do Brits have Jell-O in their hospitals? Hmmm. _

She jumped off his bed, and went to the couch bed futon thing under the window. She tugged at the seat experimentally, and laughed as it folded out into a bed. She was glad. She was so tired. She had been planning at bunking at Sherlock's, but his place was a smoke infested, brick riddled, broken glass everywhere disaster. And she had no intention of getting a hotel room. She had pissed off Uncle Sam, and she was safest closest to the Holmes brothers. Uncle Sam wouldn't dare to try and send someone for her here. So she would stay near Sherlock and Mycroft until Uncle Sam found someone more interesting to chase. She had no problem ignoring John and Sherlock snuggling if they wanted. And if John didn't want to bother Sherlock's ribs, he could sleep with her. There was room. She'd behave. Maybe.

Violet went back for her stuff, and dropped it all on the floor next to the makeshift bed. She did steal a blanket, and one of his many pillows, and was fully ensconced and wrapped up as she heard Sherlock complaining in the hall.

* * *

Sherlock was loathe to admit it, but he was glad John was dragging him back to bed. He was so tired and stressed out that he was able to not deduce every person he saw in the halls. He didn't object when John half carried him, half dragged him back in to his room.

Sherlock saw Violet on the bed under the window, and easily ignored her presence. She was pretending to be asleep, so he would pretend he thought she was. John hadn't seen her, so absorbed was he in getting Sherlock back in his bed. Sherlock slowly relaxed back on the mattress, sighing in relief as he settled down. John tucked him in, and Sherlock barely registered his dear doctor hooking him back up to the morphine drip. Thankfully John kept it on low, so all it did was numb the pain, and not his mind.

John went to sit in the chair, stopping when Sherlock tried to grab his hand.

"Sleep with me." Sherlock whispered. His eyes were heavy, and he tried again to reach for John.

"Your ribs, love. I don't want to put pressure on them." John whispered to him. His hand pushed away a curl from his eyes, and Sherlock pouted when he pulled away. Sherlock needed his doctor, wanted him near. He had the foolish thought running through his head that if he went to sleep, John would disappear.

"Please." Sherlock struggled not to sleep. He heard John sigh.

Sherlock stayed awake long enough to hear John toe off his shoes, and come around to his right side. This bed was bigger than his last, and John was able to fit up on the mattress with him. John lay along his side, and very carefully snuggled with his arm and shoulder.

"This okay? Doesn't hurt?" John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock hummed quietly in approval, and the last thing he felt was John kissing his cheek.

* * *

Mary stepped through the door of 23-24 Leinster Gardens, making sure no one saw her. The streets were empty, and she was thankful. It had taken her longer than she would have liked to get here, as traffic through London was currently limited to emergency personnel and vehicles. Then she had to avoid the CCTV cameras, but that was easier than it would have been, as she remembered well the routes Jaime had taught her to avoid detection on the streets of London.

She shut the door behind her, and barricaded it with a large box she pulled from a dusty corner. She turned on the few lights in this fake house, and saw signs of recent habitation. Most likely Sherlock. He had told her to come here the night before, when she hugged him and John goodbye. It had taken some soul searching on her part whether or not she would take his advice and come.

If she tried leaving England now, she would be caught. Jaime Moriarty was beyond reach. That meant the government would need someone to blame. Which meant her. She wasn't guiltless, not by any means. But the life she carried deserved to be born in the free air, not behind prison walls.

Mary had seen the explosion from the far side of the estate the night before, and it had sent her to her knees in grief. She knew, she knew, that Jaime was dead. Mary had wept in the tall wet grass in the deep shadows beside the river, watching as the flames freed a tortured soul from her nightmare of a life.

Mary hadn't been worried about John or Sherlock. She had seen the helicopter take off about a minute before the explosion hit, which meant they knew it was coming. More than enough time for them to get out. She had stolen a car an hour or so later, and she had heard on the radio that there had been no casualties in the explosion, which mean that the government was covering up Jaime Moriarty's existence, and her death. No one died in that fire, because they would then have to acknowledge that she lived. The bombings in the city were being attributed to unknown affiliates of Lord Moran, carrying out his aborted plans. It was almost true.

Mary dropped her duffel on the faded settee in the front room, and went exploring. The concrete shell around the Underground vent was small, but had two rooms and a bathroom off of a long hall. The bathroom had a sink and a toilet, and the shower was nothing but a spout from the wall over a drain in the floor. She didn't mind, she had hidden in worse places.

She couldn't stay here forever. She was pregnant, and as long as she hadn't triggered a miscarriage with her activities the night before, she intended to stay that way. She had never wanted anything so much in her life. And living in a fake house while being hunted by the government would only work as a short term solution.

Mary collapsed on the settee, knowing she should tend her injuries and get some sleep. She was soaked from the damp morning air, and she had left her jacket behind with Jaime in the cell. Mary bit back a fresh burst of pain at the thought of the younger Moriarty dying in that cage, trapped like an animal. She shouldn't have put her in there, but at the time Mary had thought it was the safest thing for her, to prevent Mycroft from shooting as soon as he saw her. Not even Mycroft Holmes would kill a woman as she lay helpless in a cage.

Mary wondered what had triggered the blast. Most likely Jaime had woken up, and done something to set off one of the bombs in the manor. She had not shared with Mary where they were, though Mary had long ago decided they were in the crates in the ballroom. There had been many that Mary hadn't seen inside of, and the placement of some of the crates suggested they were special.

She tugged listlessly at the duffel bag, unzipping it to evaluate her supplies. She ignored the clothing and medical supplies, looking for her weapons. She pulled out her box of aliases, and the nine mil and extra clip. She pawed through the bag, wondering where the knife went that she had taken from the sniper she shot the night before. She remembered taking the clip from his nine mil, tossing the gun, and putting the knife in her jacket… Mary shot to her feet, her heart racing, pulse pounding in her ears as the realization hit.

_I put the knife in the jacket. I put the jacket on Jaime. She had a knife in that cage. I could get out of that cell with a knife in no time. She could do it even faster._

_Oh Jaime. Sweetheart, are you out there?_

* * *

John slept with Sherlock in his hospital bed all that day, and well into evening. He had only gotten up at the insistence of Sherlock's nurses, but once they left, he got right back in that bed. He was exhausted. They all were. And he wanted nothing more than to sleep next to Sherlock, feel his heart beat in his chest, hear him breathe. Know they were both alive and together. Sherlock hadn't even stirred when lunch was brought in, and it was sitting on the tray next to the bed still. John had gone to the restroom earlier, and noticed that the gelatin was gone. He'd thrown a glance in Violet's direction, but said nothing.

John woke up as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Violet was awake as well, sitting up in bed with her back to the wall under the window. She had her laptop out and was working away at whatever it was she did. Sherlock still slept, and John carefully eased himself out of bed.

"Hey, John." Violet greeted him from her spot at the window.

"Violet." John tried to be quiet, and he walked over to the young hacker. She patted the cushions next to her, and he shrugged, crawling up next to her. John felt his brows raise up as she scooted over, and snuggled with him. Her raven hair tickled his chin as she rested her head on his shoulder. "What you doing?"

"Lots of things. Hunting hackers, looking for moles, bidding on eBay, watching Lestrade's vitals. He's still with us, by the way." Violet snuggled closer, and she roped an arm through his. She hit a key, and suddenly the screen was filled with Lestrade's vital signs. John sucked in a breath, both relieved and disturbed by what he saw. The DI wasn't any better, but he wasn't worse. Good news, for now.

John sighed, and leaned his head back. While he had been sleeping, he could not think about everything that had happened. Watching people he knew get kidnapped, hurt, thinking they were dead, getting kidnapped himself, sexually assaulted, almost dying so many times he lost count… And Mary. The assassin he had left because he loved his best friend more, was pregnant with his baby. He was going to be a father. All of this was chipping away at him. His world was all askew.

Violet was staring at him, and she snapped shut her laptop, put it on the floor, and wrapped her arms around him. John shuddered at the unexpected empathy from this near stranger, but it was what he needed. She was sweet and non-judgmental, and not burdened as deeply as he by recent events. Violet tugged him to her, and John went, wrapping his arms around her. He bit his lip, and tired not to cry. No grown man wants to weep on a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. She sat on the futon, and held him, and she seemed to know he was being stubborn, because she pressed a kiss to his temple.

"Who can the doctor save if he doesn't save himself?" She whispered. John laughed at the silliness, and that broke it for him. His laughter turned to tears. John let go, just let it all go. John sobbed out the stress, worry, guilt, fear, pain. The last month of his life easily eclipsed his discharge from the army, the loss of Sherlock to the Fall, those lonely months after. John cried quietly into the shoulder of this strange girl who reminded him so much of the man he loved. The man who was injured and hurt because John had angered the wrong woman. Because a madman years ago had taken his own life to force Sherlock to die, and the elder's death had broken the younger Moriarty beyond repair.

John cried it all out. He wept, and couldn't stop. Violet held him tight, right up until he felt the long slim fingers slide through his hair. He hadn't even heard Sherlock get out of bed. Violet let him pull away, and John fought to control his tears, not wanting to let Sherlock see him cry. Sherlock was having none of that. He sat on the other side of John, pulled his doctor to him. John went, Violet nearly pushing him, as Sherlock sat back against the wall. John didn't want to put any weight on Sherlock's ribs, but Sherlock was stubborn, and John curled up to his uninjured side.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered in his ear. "I love you, John."

John cried on his lover's bare shoulder. Violet had disappeared. John knew nothing but the strength under his hands and the lips that Sherlock pressed to his tear streaked face. Sherlock. His name, the sound of his voice, all of it a balm on the doctor's wounded soul. John had never needed, had never wanted, someone as much as he did Sherlock. Just the heat from his long form, and the way he touched him, swept all the heartache away, grief and fear falling to ash.

John's tears eased, and he rested on Sherlock's shoulder. His detective's wonderful hands were rubbing over his shoulders, his back, caressing his neck. Sherlock tipped up his chin, gorgeous eyes searching his face. His fingers wiped away the remaining tears, and John tried to smile.

"Better?" Sherlock kissed him, and John stirred enough to kiss him back.

"Much better." John brought his hand up, and deepened the kiss. He touched his tongue to Sherlock's lips, sweeping across them, encouraging them to open. Sherlock sighed, a small moan escaping from his detective as he let John in. "I love you, too."

Sherlock caught his face between his strong hands, and pulled John up on his knees. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, and he fought to breathe past the fire burning in his lungs, his heart. Every touch lit him on fire. Sparks tingled along his skin, and John struggled to remember where they were, that they couldn't indulge themselves.

John pulled back, gasping for air. "You're hurt, we shouldn't….." Sherlock pulled him back down, and kissed him so deeply John lost the ability to think.

"Violet's guarding the door from the hall. No one is getting in here." Sherlock whispered in his ear, his mouth sucking and nipping at a tender spot on his neck. "I've got a day's worth of morphine in me, I'm not good for much. Just let me touch you."

"Oh….." John gasped as Sherlock's tongue soothed the bite marks on his neck. John tried to pull away, not wanting Sherlock to touch them, but his detective was insistent. He stopped caring what was wrong with his neck, and focused instead on how Sherlock was making him feel.

"Mine." Sherlock whispered in his ear, tugging at John's hips. John straddled Sherlock's lap, and his detective went back to nuzzling his neck, tongue lapping at his skin. "You're mine, John. I love you."

Sherlock kissed his neck, sucking and nipping. His clever hands rubbed up his sides, across his stomach, his chest. John groaned, and bit at Sherlock's earlobe. His detective moaned, and scraped his teeth down the strong lines of his doctor's throat, to were the pulse beat rapidly. He sucked, and John never noticed when Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt. His long fingers raced across the muscles of John's chest, one thumb teasing over a nipple. John jumped at the unexpected touch, and Sherlock grinned.

"Sherlock….." John wanted nothing more than to keep going. To pull Sherlock down on that bed, and do things to this man that would erase every tear, pain and heartbreak from his soul. "I want you."

"You have me." Sherlock went to rip John's shirt off, and John helped him, shrugging out of his shirt, letting it fall on the floor. Sherlock's mouth traveled down his neck to his chest, licking and biting.

His detective brought his hands to John's belt, and tugged it free. He paused, as if waiting for something. John got impatient, and pulled his belt off, throwing it over his shoulder. He dimly heard it hit the tile floor. Sherlock laughed and pulled John in for an open mouthed kiss, tongues dancing, their breath panting over wet lips, hands grasping at the other.

Sherlock thrust his hips up, catching John and lifting him, and he let Sherlock flip him on his back. Sherlock came over him, his hips resting between John's legs. John held him close, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's thighs. John refused to let Sherlock stop kissing him, his hands buried in those unbelievably soft curls.

"Psst!" Came the not-so-subtle whisper from the door. "Company incoming!"

Sherlock groaned, and thrust his hips once, twice, rubbing himself on John's groin. John thrust back up, and fought to restrain himself. A large part of him said he should find a way to lock the door, and spend the night making love to his detective. But the more prudent part of him said they should stop. The fist that banged on the door twice made him groan, and pull back from Sherlock.

"Play time is over, love." John whispered across Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock rolled on his back, arms above his head. Both of them were breathing hard, John watching Sherlock pant shallow breaths. John sat up, and reached down for his shirt, tugging it back on. The door opened just a crack, and Violet peeked in. He waved at her, and she opened the door wider, sneaking back in the room, closing it shut behind her.

"I lied to the doctor, said you were helping Sherlock in the bathroom, and you two needed some privacy. He's coming back in a few minutes." Violet didn't bother hiding the grin on her face, especially when she bent over and picked John's belt up off the floor. She waved it around, and John huffed at her as he jumped up from the futon, snatching it out of her hands. She giggled, and walked past him to Sherlock.

Sherlock was still on his back, and hadn't moved much. He was very pale, and John felt the stirrings of guilt at the pain etched on his lover's face. They shouldn't have been fooling around like that.

"John, don't you dare feel bad. Sherlock, time to get up. Bathroom break, then back to bed before your other doctor decides to put you in a coma to make you behave." Violet put her hands under Sherlock's shoulders, and John helped her lift Sherlock up and on his feet. She appeared completely willing to follow Sherlock into the bathroom, but John shooed her away at the door. She just grinned at him, and flounced back to the futon under the window.

* * *

Sherlock kicked John out of the bathroom, refusing to submit his dignity by asking for help. He could manage. The morphine was wearing off, arousal and heavy petting having worked it out of his system faster. Sherlock had woken up to hear Violet comforting John, and the sight had made Sherlock get out of bed. He didn't begrudge John finding comfort from Violet, not at all. It was Sherlock who wanted to be offering it. John was his.

Sherlock opened the door, listening to Violet tease John. John bore up under it well, ignoring her jabs as he would Sherlock's. The detective observed the incongruity of having John and Violet in the same space. Two separate parts of his life, colliding.

"Violet, I need you to do something." Sherlock gasped from the bathroom door, as John hurried to his side. John helped him back to his bed, and Sherlock held out a hand to keep John from reattaching the morphine.

"Yeah, Sexy?" She came over to him, and sat at his feet on the bed.

"I'm assuming that since you've already been to Baker Street that getting around the city isn't an issue for you." Sherlock told his hacker, John's eyebrows rising in question.

"Takes me slightly longer, but I can manage just fine." Violet had that look on her face, the one she got when she was planning something mischievous. "The city is shut down due to the bombings, but I'm not hindered by it."

"Good." Sherlock leaned back on the pillows, looking for the button to raise the bed up. John read his mind, and did it for him. "Mary is where we were hiding after you helped me escape. I need you to go see if she's alright."

John looked like Sherlock had just lit the sheets on fire, he was so shocked. Sherlock smirked at him, and tugged John's hand.

"Hell, yeah." She sat up straighter, her eyes twinkling. "I'm thinking that since you're asking me, it needs to stay secret?"

"Yes. The government is after her. She must not be found." Sherlock stressed that last part, eyeing the door, watching for the unwanted doctor to return. Violet was literally rubbing her hands together in anticipation.

"Yeah no kidding. Pregnant and in prison, not a good mix." Violet jumped off the bed, and went for her bag. "She'll need supplies, meds, clothes….. it's cold as hell in there too….."

"Wait, does everyone know Mary's pregnant? How was I the last to know?" John groused, and Sherlock tried to restrain his laughter at the exasperated look on his doctor's face. "Was it really obvious or something?"

"Terribly." Violet laughed at John's face, and she ran back to him, hugging his shoulders in apology. "I only know because Sherlock told me. And the girls know because Mary told Jaime in front of them."

"Shit. Which means Mycroft will know once Anthea tells him." John ran a hand through his short hair making parts of it stick up. "I should come with you."

"Ummm…" Violet looked at Sherlock, biting her lip. "Anthea is still asleep, and Mycroft is distracted by Lestrade. Mycroft has his focus split. It would be easier if I had help. Just don't know if she wants two of us showing up."

"Go, John. I'll be fine. The two of you should be able to slip out unobserved." Sherlock let his head fall back on his pillows. "Please be careful."

Violet didn't answer, just dropped her bag on the bed next to his legs, and dug through it.

"Here. These cells are clean. Untraceable." She pulled out two mobiles, dropping one each in John and Sherlock's hands. "Not even Mycroft can find these. They are sisters; the other numbers are programmed in there. Mine is number one."

"You ready to evade your government, aid a wanted woman, and watch me be totally awesome?" Violet asked John, grinning as he gulped. "Don't worry John; I know you've done far worse with Sherlock. I'm tame compared to him. Now kiss your man goodbye. I'm aiming to misbehave."

"Christ Sherlock, what have you gotten me into?" John grumbled, but he bent over Sherlock, and kissed his detective. Sherlock held him, and John pulled back when Violet started chuckling. John grinned at them both, and for the first time in weeks, John felt a trickle of excitement that wasn't laced with grief.

"Sherlock, the cells will alert if Lestrade gets worse. Don't let Mycroft see it." Violet told him as she grabbed John's hand, eagerly pulling him out the door. She had both their jackets in hand already, her bag slung over a shoulder. "I'll text you as we go along."

Sherlock watched until Violet and John disappeared out the door. He fell back on the pillows, and he slowly reached out for the morphine drip, reattaching it. He set the drip on low, and hid the mobile under his pillow. He had some thinking to do, and he knew the way forward for them all would be tricky. Mary, John, himself, even Violet. Her determination to stay in his radius was telling; something had happened that made her want to stick around.

He had no issue with her staying, or with letting her leave with John. She had intelligence, and John was capable of protecting the both of them. He owed John the truth when he got back. Her, too.

* * *

Mary tried sleeping. The settee smelled lightly of Sherlock. This must have been where he stayed after escaping from the hospital. It had been a long, cold day, and Mary had done her best to rest. She had showered, and changed clothes. The nine mil was under her hand where it rested on the settee.

_Jaime. Are you alive? Am I foolish for wishing you were? I heard your words to Sherlock. I heard every word. How did I reach you? What did I do to make you love me? Sweetheart, I don't know what I'm feeling, but the remains of my heart break every time I think you might be dead…..and that you may live._

The wind picked up outside, and Mary curled up on the settee, wrapping her arms around her knees. She would have to leave, and soon. Staying here may be the smart move to stay hidden, but not if she wanted to stay healthy. She used to be able to stay awake for days on end, with little food, limited clean water, and still be able to finish her missions with precision and efficiency. But that was nearly six years ago now; six years younger, and she had been in her prime. She hadn't been living comfortably with a regular job, easy lazy weekends. Muscle memory and deeply ingrained habits would keep her going for a long time, but she would gradually lose her edge. No one stayed young forever.

And she would not be at her best, suffering from morning sickness. And the resultant change in her body as the pregnancy continued would reduce her ability to defend herself.

_One more day, Sherlock, then I have to leave._

* * *

Violet led John down the hall, past the stairs, and around a corner, heading towards the service elevator.

"Where are we going?" John asked quietly, walking beside her. She threw him a look, tilting her head towards one of Mycroft's men walking just ahead of them. He shut up, which she was thankful for.

Violet snagged his arm, and pulled him behind a large rack holding bed linens. She waited, watching as the MI6 operative disappeared into a restroom. She tugged John after her, and they ran past the public bathroom, and she kept running until the rounded another corner. The service elevator was at the end, and she wasted no time in slapping the call button.

"We get to the back service entrance, there's going to be lines of cars. Most of them are MI6 and Scotland Yard vehicles. We are going past the patrol cars, down the line to the first black town car we see. You are to look no one in the eye, avoid making any facial expressions whatsoever. Look bored, if you can manage to get that eager grin off your face." Violet told John as she paced in front of the doors, waiting on the elevator. John was grinning, the sneaking around already working its magic on him. She grinned in return, the night's festivities just beginning.

"I'm letting you in on trade secrets, John Watson. I'm not just a hacker; I'm damn good at stealing just about anything, not just information." She pulled him in the car just as the doors opened, and she started humming as the doors shut. John threw her a look, one part curiosity, the other a fun mix of fear and eagerness.

"I'm afraid to ask, but what are you humming?" John asked her, as she watched the floors light up as they headed down. "It sounds so familiar. You were humming it on the phone when you helped us with Mary and Moriarty."

"I'm surprised you don't know it, Sherlock would play it all the time." Violet winked at him, and walked out the elevator as the doors dinged open. "Man loves his Bach. Show time Dr Watson, give me your bored face."

She heard him grumbling behind her, but she ignored it, pulling out her ever trusty mobile, and pulled up an app. It was her VIN tracker, and any vehicle with networking capability was vulnerable. All she had to do was take a picture of the VIN, and she would be able to hack into the locking mechanisms, the ignition if it had auto-start. All of the town cars used by MI6 did. She had been borrowing Mycroft's rides for the last day.

She cast a look at John just before the doors, and she stopped in disgust. "That's your bored face? Crap. Alright, take out the cell I gave you and pretend you're talking to someone you hate."

John looked sheepish, and he tugged out the mobile she had given him, and she smirked as he tried to pretend he was talking on the phone. "You don't have to say anything, just pretend you're listening. This would be sad if it wasn't going to be so much fun. Ready? Out we go."

Her demeanor changed as she swept out the doors, her stance changing to one of authority, and she walked with a long limbed grace that said she had a purpose. And beware anyone who got in her way. Violet knew she was striking, and that men looked. She would use it to her advantage, but she also knew when to play it down. She heard John follow behind her, and she walked down the length of vehicles behind the hospital, heading straight for the town cars. She didn't raise her mobile, but the app was running. There were police officers and MI6 agents littering the back alley, and she would nod to any that met her eye.

Violet pretended to stumble, her hand flashing up to steady herself on the hood of the closest town car. She was subtle, but she got the VIN captured, and let the app run as she bent down next to the driver's side door, as if she were fixing her heel.

"You okay?" John asked, mobile still pressed to his ear. She fought back a laugh, and watched his face as the car she was leaning on roared to life, the door unlocking at the same time. His expression was priceless, and she stood back up, opening the door for him.

"Hop in, Doc. Let's go shopping." Violet got behind the wheel, as John tried and failed to look inconspicuous getting in the front passenger seat. "Fuck me, John. Have you ever stolen anything before?"

"Um, no." John shut his door, and he hastily threw on his seatbelt as she drove the powerful car out of the line, and down the alley. The government plates would give them the license they needed to travel through the shutdown city.

* * *

He knew he was dead. He must be, to hear her voice. She had fallen days ago. He waited, wondering why he couldn't see her. He heard her voice, as familiar to him as his own. He was surrounded by grey fog, hiding her from sight. He thought he lost her again, as she was quiet. He waited, and as time passed, the urgency to hear her again began to fade. Maybe she was waiting on him. He had to let go, find her on his own.

"His blood pressure improved there for a minute. Try again, he may have heard you." It was a voice he had never heard before, and he had no desire to find it. It wasn't her.

"Boss? It's Sally. I'm not dead. That's completely messed up, I know. Please don't leave me." She sounded so sad. Why was she sad? And what did she mean, she wasn't dead? Of course she was. He was dead, and he heard her. "Greg, please don't go."

She was crying. He heard the tears. She never cried. Why was Sally crying? He remembered her now. Stubborn, mean, his, all his. His Sally, and his friend. Partners. Where was she?

He was so tired. Maybe she was lost like him. Sally never asked for help if she was lost. He just wanted to sleep, he would find her in a little while.

"He may not be able to respond, it may be too early. We can try again later." The strange voice was speaking, and he ignored it. He was too tired.

Sally faded away. She left. He would find her soon, but he was too tired.

Nothing for the longest time, just the grey expanse of fog, of emptiness. Being dead was so easy, effortless.

He could hear, in the quiet, the sound of someone calling. Calling him. What was his name again? It must be him that voice is calling to, there was no one else here. Just him.

"Gregory." Strong voice. But sad. Why was he sad? "I don't believe you can hear me. This is foolishness. You've been heavily sedated for over twelve hours, and you've been shot, operated on, died once already. But I can't stay away anymore."

"You're dying, Gregory." That voice was closer now, so near. He tried looking for it, reaching for it. He knew that voice. "I don't recall telling you to die."

_He sounds mad now. Why is he mad? I thought I was dead already. Don't be mad. Please. _

"You can't hear me. But… if you could, I would…. I would tell you to stay. Here. Order you, even. Order you to stay. Listen to me, talking to you like this." He sounded sadder now. The anger was gone.

_Don't be sad. Not for me. Why am I making you sad? _

"If you could hear me, I would… I would tell you that I am afraid. Afraid that if you die, I stop being myself. I won't be able to function, think, move, live. You make me want to try. Try to be more than just the Iceman. More than a nameless entity with too much power."

_You aren't nameless. I know your name. Mycroft. I hear you. Keep talking to me; don't leave me alone in the dark. _

"Gregory. Greg." Hesitant now. Still so very sad. "You won't make it if you don't wake up. I won't make it if you don't wake up. Open your eyes, dammit!"

"Sir, please don't raise your voice. If you can't calm down, I will have to ask you to leave." That strange voice again. He didn't want to hear that voice. He wanted to hear Mycroft.

Greg tried moving through the fog. Mycroft was here somewhere. He wanted to see Mycroft. Mycroft couldn't be here, not if he was dead. Mycroft was not dead. Mycroft was alive. He would know, he would feel it, if Mycroft was gone. That meant he wasn't dead.

_I'm not dead. Mycroft!_

"I doubt my tone of voice will affect his current condition more than the bullet that ripped through him as he saved your life. Get out now, or I will have you exiled to Eastern Europe!" Furious now, Mycroft's voice. Cold, rigid, and furious.

There was a shuffling of feet, and whoever it was left. Mycroft was still there. Greg faltered in the grey fog. He wasn't weightless anymore. He felt something. Warmth. A gentle heat on his hand. Greg could feel Mycroft's hand, and it made his heart race. Mycroft was closer, so close.

"What must I do? Order you to stay? I can do that. I need you to wake up. I'm ordering you to wake up, Greg. Now."

_I won't leave you. Never. Keep calling me. Show me the way back. I don't want to leave you._

Mycroft's voice was so close now. Right inside his head. Warm breath rushing across his ear, the cool scent of pine and whiskey. He knew them, he had spent days wrapped up in this man. He wanted him, needed him. Greg struggled out of the mist, answering that order as best he could.

"Greg, I need you, I want you. Please come back to me." Mycroft's words echoed the ones in his heart. Greg ripped himself from the fog, and reached.

Greg took a deep breath, and immediately wished he hadn't. The pain was intense. His side felt like it was on fire, molten lava dripping on him, down his side. It ate at him, chasing him, making him squirm and gasp on the uncomfortable mattress. His back was on fire too. He couldn't escape the pain. Pinpricks were everywhere, his arms itching. Greg opened his eyes, and the light above him hurt too. Tears ran from his eyes, down his temples.

"Greg? Doctor, get back in here, now! Greg, don't move, stay still." Mycroft was leaning over him, his slim hands lightly touching Greg's cheek, eyes bright with disbelief and joy. "I can't believe you woke up. Doctor, get in here, now!"

Greg didn't pay any attention to the people who swarmed over him. He ignored the doctors, the nurses, all the people asking him questions. He pushed aside the pain, and felt his heart beat in his chest at the sight of this man who had called him back. Ordered him back. He looked past the light being shone in his eyes, to Mycroft. The MI6 man was standing back, letting the medical team fuss over him.

"Mycroft…." He tried to speak, his voice weak and unsure. It hurt him, the effort it took to talk. He tried again, a nurse leaning over him, trying to hear what he was saying. He whispered his words to her, and she pulled back, a tiny smile on her face.

"What did he say?" Mycroft demanded. The nurse turned Mycroft, and she grinned.

"He said, 'Anything for you, sir.'"

The look on Mycroft's face was reward enough for all the pain and stress, the uncertainty and agony. The Iceman was gone. There was only Mycroft. Greg fought against the pain, eyes locked on the man who had called him back from oblivion. Mycroft was a man worth coming back for.


	35. Brother Mine

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**A/N: Soon I'll be at the end of this particular story. I'll take suggestions on how to publish the next two installments. Shall I add them on to this story, as in 'Part Two, Part Three', or publish them as separate entities? Everything is already plotted out, I just need feedback on how to post it all. Please let me know in the reviews, or private messages.**

**Please enjoy this chapter. For those of you who may think Violet Hunter is an OC, she is actually a Conan Doyle character, and I have just changed her to fit my story. Some Holmesian scholars theorized on her true identity in relation to Sherlock Holmes after he created her character, as Holmes' reaction to her was significant. I won't spoil anything, just feel free to go research her on Wikipedia, and there are even some published works out there that discuss her connection to Conan Doyle's Sherlock.**

**Please enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Five**

"_**Brother Mine"**_

"Do you want to knock already? These bags aren't getting any lighter." Violet grumbled to the doctor, his hand raised to knock at the door of 23-24 Leinster Gardens.

John hesitated. Mary may not even be in there anymore. _There's no guarantee that she even came here. It's well past midnight now, most likely closer to two in the morning really. She might be sleeping._

"John!" Violet snapped at him.

John gathered his courage, and knocked. Or he tried, as the door opened before his knuckles hit the wood. John found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm, with a blonde assassin at the other end. He froze, and met her eyes over the gun. She looked pissed. It was very late at night. _Ooops._

"Oh, that's Mary! Darling, you look way to fine to be getting blood splattered all over that sweater. Except for the bruises. Is it true she hit you as part of an ambush? Wow. How about you not shoot your baby daddy, and you let me in? John can stay out in the cold, that's cool." Violet spoke over his shoulder, and Mary slowly broke eye contact to look at the girl behind him. John watched as Mary did a double take, her eyes widening when she saw Violet.

The gun dropped, and John sucked in some air, thankful he'd used the restroom at the last place they stopped before coming here. Mary backed away from the door, and John took that as an invitation, stepping over the threshold into the most bizarre building he'd ever seen. It looked utterly normal on the outside, but the inside was nothing but a long concrete hall, with a small room near the front. He saw a few doors off the hall, and thought there might be more rooms as the space went on.

Violet scampered in behind him, and she kicked the door shut. Violet had bags overflowing from both hands, and John carried an armful himself. Violet had insisted they get everything she thought a woman in hiding might need. John had been flummoxed by some of her selections. What was Mary going to be needing a hair dryer for? Or hairspray? She was in hiding, right? But he had been on enough shopping trips with girlfriends in his life to know the futility of arguing with a woman when she was shopping.

"I wasn't expecting you, John." Mary said as she tucked the gun into her waistband, walking away from him. She stood near a faded and dusty settee, arms crossed over her chest. He couldn't tell if she was angry, sad, tired, or if this is what the real Mary Morstan looked like all the time. _Or is it Amelia?_

"I wasn't expecting me to be here, either. But Sherlock said you were here, and we thought you may need some things." John said, and he smiled ruefully as she lifted a brow at him. He put his bags next to the door. "Oh fine, Violet did all the shopping, I just carried everything."

"And a marvelous job you did, too. Gold star, Sexy." Violet walked right past him, and dropped the bags on the settee next to Mary. She moved without fear, not at all bothered by the fact she was in the same room as the woman who had been in league with Death only a few days earlier. John was having trouble, for so many reasons.

Mary was staring at Violet, and Violet was unashamedly staring right back. The raven haired beauty was the taller of the two women, nearly as tall as Sherlock, and Mary was shorter than John. The size discrepancy didn't matter at all as the two sized each other up. John felt like he was caught in an alley with two cats, and they were sniffing noses, trying to decide if they would be friends or bitter enemies.

Mary broke the silence first, dropping her arms, and turning fully to Violet. She was smiling, her blue eyes twinkling in the low lamp light. Violet just kept staring, her vivid eyes evaluating the blonde assassin.

"You look just like him." She said, eyeing Violet from head to toe. "I'd say family, but Jaime had a dossier on the entire Holmes' clan, and there was no daughter. Another son, yes, but no daughter."

John jumped, staring at Mary. _Another son? There's another Holmes brother? What the hell?_

"I never asked." Violet smiled at the blonde assassin. She seemed to make up her mind, as she spun on her heels, diving into the bags on the settee. Clothing, toiletries and random packages spilled out everywhere.

"What do you mean, another son?" John asked Mary. He really needed to know. There was no way that he had missed something like that all these years. But then, he hadn't even known that Sherlock had parents until two weeks ago.

Mary spared him a look, as she bent over the supplies next to Violet.

"Yes, he died years ago. He was the eldest, by quite a few years." Mary said, not even paying attention to his shock. "There was no name, just the initials of **S.H.** Same as Sherlock. You want to know more, ask him. The man was his brother, after all."

"Yeah, I guess I will." John didn't know if he was mad or not. But if his oldest brother was dead, and had been for a long time, he could see how that wouldn't be a topic of conversation. Sherlock never volunteered information, especially about his family. Other than Mycroft, that is. Sherlock loved to complain about Mycroft.

John watched the ladies as they picked through the bags, already acting like they'd known each other for years. They were chatting quietly, and he caught Violet sneaking a random glance his way once in a while. He shouldn't be surprised. They were both crazy. He pulled out the mobile that Violet had given him, and started sending a text to the other phone.

**At the safe house. Mary and Violet are fast friends. Why didn't you tell me you had another brother? –JW**

Nothing for a few minutes. John sat on a box next to the door, finding himself glad to be ignored. He had no notion of how to interact with Mary. He tried not to feel like he was being rude, or that he was hiding.

**He died a very long time ago. It never mattered. –SH**

Most people would be demanding to know how he found out, who told him, things like that. Not Sherlock. He wouldn't care, or he would correctly figure it out on his own. But John was feeling lost, and he hated that feeling. So if his next text came out slightly snarky, he didn't mean it that way. Maybe.

**Maybe it matters now? –JW **

John waited, wondering if he'd put Sherlock off. He didn't mean to be demanding. Mary was making him uncomfortable. He kept thinking he should say something, but he had no idea what. It was several minutes before Sherlock replied.

**Is this one of those relationship rules?-SH**

**Yes. –JW**

**I'll tell you in person then. Is Mary well? –SH**

**Must be, she's ignoring me. –JW**

**Better than her trying to kill you. –SH**

**HA. True. How are you feeling? –JW**

**I am fine. High, but fine. –SH**

**Turn down the morphine, Sherlock. –JW**

**Boring! Fine. Hurry back. Mycroft came by to 'visit'. Spying, more like. Lestrade woke up. –SH**

John felt a rush of happiness at that bit of news, and he looked up from the mobile to the women organizing the supplies.

"Violet, Lestrade woke up." John told the brunette. She smiled at him, and pulled out her mobile. She checked the notifications, her brows rising.

"So he did! Less than an hour ago from the heart rate monitor. He's sleeping now, though. Good for him." She tucked her mobile away, and went back to stacking canned food on a shelf.

"What happened to Greg, John?" Mary asked. She sounded nervous, like she actually cared.

"One of Moriarty's guards shot him when he disarmed the bomb set to blow up St Bart's." John told her, trying his best not to come across accusatory. Lestrade nearly died because of her friend. Because she joined up with Moriarty. He didn't try hard enough, because her eyes went flinty, and she turned her back on him. His eyes were drawn to the grip of the gun as it peeked out from under her cream colored jumper. She carried it the way most women carried a purse; so used to it that its presence was normal.

"I won't bother apologizing, John. And you wouldn't believe me anyway." She spoke quietly, to the wall, but her tone was hard and unforgiving. Violet sent her a curious look, but she held her tongue, just watching.

John sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. Mary was pushing all his buttons. She was almost unreadable. He couldn't tell if she was upset, sad, remorseful, nothing. Just vague hints of emotion that traveled across her face. She was hiding herself from him, hiding what she was thinking and feeling.

"I didn't come here to argue." John said, mumbling. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was a small room, and she heard him.

"Why did you come, John? Why are you here? Why not just let me get caught, or turn me in yourself? Why come here with Sherlock's niece, arms full of peace offerings, and then dare to get mad at me for asking after the welfare of a man I genuinely liked?" She spun back to him, so fast his hand went instinctively for the gun he had tucked under his own jumper. He stopped himself, but it was too late. She saw his reaction, her eyes glacial and fierce.

Mary was furious. Absolutely enraged. Her face was snow white, eyes like blue diamonds, and just as hard. He felt a cold chill run over his skin.

"What, I'm pregnant, and suddenly you expect me to be friendly? That I'm not still horribly pissed off at you? I may have decided to help you, but that doesn't excuse the fact you left me for a man who made you think he was dead for two years!" She was so angry she was growling out the next words. "And regardless of my actions the last several days, I didn't want you all dead! I spared your friends! And I certainly didn't have to answer the fucking phone when Sherlock called!"

John didn't answer, he had nothing to say that wouldn't incite her further. That wouldn't make him blow up just as badly. He just sat there, his face clearly broadcasting his own upset state, biting his tongue. He felt ashamed for his knee-jerk reaction in reaching for his weapon. His lack of an answer didn't help, as she went from furious to insanely scary in mere seconds.

"You asshole." Mary spat at him, and she stalked out of the room. He heard something shatter in the next room, like she had picked up a mug and thrown it at a wall. Violet was staring at the door, mouth open. There came another crash, and he could've sworn he heard her swearing. Her voice was different, and she sounded more like Violet. She sounded American. A very pissed off American woman who had spent the better part of two decades killing people because she was paid to.

"This is the best day of felonies _ever._" Violet breathed out in awe. She slapped a hand over her mouth at the curses coming from the other room. She giggled softly, and winked at his look of indignation. "John, a piece of unsolicited advice: Never piss off a pregnant assassin."

It was that reminder of Mary's condition that swept away his anger. She was pregnant. He had gotten her pregnant. His responsibility. _Must be hormones. Please let it be hormones_.

_Shit. I will not run away, I will not run away. I'm going to sit here until she calms down, and then I'll see if she'll talk to me. Oh shit. No running, I'm fairly certain Violet would kick my ass after Mary got done with me. I have completely fucked this up. What if she leaves? What if she doesn't leave? Christ._

His mobile buzzed at him, and he looked down, glad for the distraction. Things were still breaking in the other room.

**What's taking so long? Thought we were having a relationship thing? –SH**

**Mary got mad at me. Really mad. –JW**

**She try to kill you? –SH**

**No. She's breaking things in the other room. –JW**

**Then she's not that mad. –SH**

**And you're an expert on mad women? –JW**

**I'm an expert on psychopaths. –SH**

**Oh. Yeah. I feel tons better now. –JW**

**Do hurry up. I'm not sleeping alone. –SH**

There hadn't been the sound of anything breaking for a couple of minutes. John looked nervously down the hall, and glanced at Violet. She was thinking hard, her nose crinkling up exactly like Sherlock's did when he didn't like what he was thinking.

"What?" John asked her. She seemed to be hung up on something.

"I am so glad I never made a move on him." She said, shrugging her shoulders and dropping the last can on a shelf. "Not that it would have been a serious move, wrong equipment and all, but the thought was there for all of a nanosecond. Curiosity, really, and he was always safe."

"Who? What?" John was lost. She relaxed, as if what she was thinking wasn't all that bad after all.

"I think Mary's conjecture is spot on. Sherlock is my uncle." She had a look on her face, as if she was contemplating what shoes to wear or what government agency to hack into. Not at all bothered that she had just dropped a hell of a revelation on Sherlock's boyfriend. "Well, fuck. That means Mycroft is my uncle, too."

"What?! How did you not know?" John was at the point of the conversation where anything else she said just didn't register. "How? What? _Does he know?!_"

John was whipping the mobile up, determined to call Sherlock and figure out what the hell was going on. How could the Holmes brothers not acknowledge her if she was family? How the hell could anyone do that? He jumped as Violet's hand snatched the mobile out of his grasp.

"No." She glared at him. John gaped at her, totally lost. "He's in the hospital, John. For fuck's sake, it's not an issue. I'm still the same person, he's still the same Sherlock, and unfortunately, Mycroft is still the same too. It's not a problem. It hasn't been an issue for the last eleven years, so it's not going to matter for the next few hours. You can ask him when we get back. Don't harangue him over the fucking phone."

"But….." John was completely lost. This girl might be his lover's niece, and the idea of it didn't seem as much of a revelation to her as it was to him. "Don't you want to know?"

"We can ask him later. I'm sure he knows. Sherlock not saying anything about it could mean anything, really." Violet reached down, and pulled him to his feet. "I'll love him all the same, no matter what the answer is. I know you'll love him, too."

"Mary! We're out, let you get some sleep. Enjoy the space heater and blankets! And there should be a sleeping bag and chocolate in the bags John left by the door! And I got you a burner cell, it's in there too!" Violet called down the hall. The only answer they got was a very quiet good night in response. John wavered, wanting to go down there, see if she was okay. Though Mary might shoot him if he did. "Sherlock gave me the keys to this place, they're on the settee!"

Violet dragged him out of the room, and she pulled him out of the building. John pulled the door shut, waiting near it until he heard Mary lock it from the other side. John felt like an ass. He had come to see how she was, to try and talk to her, maybe find out her plans. Anything other than what had actually happened.

Violet dragged him to the black car, and he shook his head in amazement as she turned it on with her mobile. She was just as brilliant as Sherlock. It would be the world's grandest coincidence if it turned out they weren't related. And if it turned out that they were blood.

They got in, and she pulled out her laptop. She had done this as they left the twenty four hour shopping center outside of London. She had told him she was blacking out the CCTV cameras in a ten block radius around Leinster Gardens. If anyone managed to track them that far, there would still be hundreds of potential places for Mary to be within that area, so finding her wouldn't be that much easier. He watched as Violet checked to make sure the blackout was still in effect. It was, and she set it to a timer, to resume normal coverage once they were out of the radius.

Part of him was wondering why he didn't feel guilty about messing with those cameras. But he knew that if MI6 found Mary, he would most likely never see her again. Or know his unborn child.

* * *

Sherlock tucked the mobile back under his pillow, hearing footsteps coming down the hall to his room. He was right to be cautious, as it was Mycroft. This was the second time in two hours he had been by, the first not long after Lestrade had woken up. He had been awake for only a few minutes, but it was enough to get his brother out of the deep state of despair he had been in. Sherlock hadn't seen Mycroft that deeply affected for decades.

"Shouldn't someone be in here, making sure you aren't dipping too deeply into your medication?" Mycroft didn't bother turning on the light, he just entered, and sat in the chair next to his bed.

"Odd position, considering your attempt to keep me heavily sedated for several days after Jaime Moriarty took John." Sherlock tossed that out casually, looking at Mycroft's face, visible in the moonlight from the window.

"Hmm. So you were awake enough to hear me. I figured as much, after you escaped Anderson."

"An infant could escape Anderson." Sherlock settled back deeper into his pillows, ignoring Mycroft's disapproving expression as he reached out and increased his morphine drip. He'd turn it down once John returned. He needed something to handle the forthcoming conversation. "Hardly the wisest choice in nannies, brother dear."

"Yes, so it would seem." Mycroft was beginning to fidget, and Sherlock tracked his gaze as it settled on the empty futon under the window.

"And how is your DI? I am assuming he is well, since you are here, and not at his side." Sherlock needled his brother, just enough to let the elder know he knew about the burgeoning relationship between them. Mycroft glared, but otherwise ignored the comment. Sherlock tried not to sigh out loud as Mycroft again looked to where Violet had been the last two days.

"Where are your doctor and the intrepid hacker?" Mycroft asked, his tone not as casual as Sherlock knew he would have liked. Mycroft knew it would take something special to get John to leave him, and Violet was most likely with the doctor, given her quick attachment to the man.

"Not here." Sherlock knew his non answer would annoy Mycroft, not caring at all as his older brother glared at him. He knew just the thing to get Mycroft's mind off of where his lover and the girl may be.

"John knows about Sherrinford." Sherlock didn't hesitate. He watched Mycroft's face as his brother processed his words. Mycroft tried to speak, mouth opening, before snapping shut. His fingers began to drum on the arm of his chair, and Sherlock withheld the smile he wanted to let free.

"How does your dear doctor know about Sherrinford?" Mycroft's voice was icy, no emotion present. Sherlock wasn't fazed at all. Especially since he was about to lie to his brother. He knew the source was Mary, but he could not tell Mycroft that.

"My assumption would be Moriarty. Did you miss the files on the tables in the ballroom? An entire dossier on our family was right there in front of you. Strange you didn't see it." Sherlock smirked this time, enjoying the relaxed feeling the morphine was giving him. "Must be slipping in your middle age."

"I didn't have much time to see anything before she blew up the manor." Mycroft snapped at him. "How much does John know?"

"Enough to ask me why I never mentioned our older brother to him." Sherlock knew the next part would be tricky. Their elder brother had been off limits for a very long time. Sherlock had hardly known him, being the youngest. The differences in their ages had been great. Mycroft had known him best, and it had nearly destroyed him too. What he was about to say next might break what restraint Mycroft had left.

"Violet is his daughter." Sherlock was blunt. He ignored the shock on his brother's face, and kept going. "She does not know. She may suspect we are blood, as she and I are very similar. She looks like him, always has. As I look like him. I confirmed it years ago, after I found her at my university."

Mycroft didn't say a word. His face was hard, like stone, and his fingers gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles were white. Sherlock found himself wondering if he should stop, if he was merely borrowing trouble. They had enjoyed the static quality of their lives for so long, that it felt wrong to disturb how things were. But Sherlock couldn't lie to John, not anymore. He had made a promise, after all. He would keep it.

"What are you going to tell them?" Mycroft asked, his voice choked on some emotion Sherlock couldn't name.

"I will tell them as much as they want to know; as much as I know. What remains to tell will be for you, if you so choose." Sherlock looked to the clock on the wall beside the door. "They should be back any minute, if you wish to be present as I explain things."

"No." Mycroft stood rapidly. His hands were fists, tight and pressed to his thighs. "You do what you want, you always have. I'll not participate in airing out our family laundry."

Sherlock wasn't surprised as Mycroft left the room, strides eating away at the floor, two of his people scurrying as they attempted to catch up. He didn't know what to make of Mycroft's refusal to acknowledge what he had said about Violet being family. Sherrinford was a deep wound, to his parents and to Mycroft. They may not be willing to welcome her.

* * *

Sherlock dozed as he waited for John and Violet to return. He was assuming that John was upset with him. If Mary knew enough about Sherrinford to say something to John, she may know enough to figure out that Violet was Sherlock's niece. He was tired, but determined to get it all out.

_This telling the truth thing is exhausting. I only spoke to Mycroft for a few minutes, and I already feel wretched. It's nearly three in the morning. Why did I never notice before just how ridiculous it was to be up at this hour? _

He must have fallen asleep; he wasn't aware John and Violet were back until he heard someone in the bathroom. John was standing next to his head, those strong fingers of his running through Sherlock's curls.

"Hey, love." John whispered to him, a smile on his face. Sherlock smiled back, foolishly pleased at John's use of the endearment. His doctor's fingers felt wonderful in his hair, and Sherlock tried not to go back sleep.

"I was waiting for you." Sherlock whispered back.

"That's okay. We can talk in the morning. Violet isn't going anywhere, either. Move over, I'm tired."

John kicked off his shoes, and climbed into bed with him. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, his doctor curling against him on his uninjured side. John was a welcome and pleasant source of heat, of love. Sherlock loved his doctor, and whispered that to him as sleep took him back under.

* * *

Morning was annoying. As was the nurse who was fussing with his morphine drip. She kept glaring at the slumbering doctor stretched out beside him. Sherlock glared right back at her, and she got the hint that he didn't care about her stupid rules, and eventually left.

Sherlock blinked at the sun in his eyes, wishing he was back in his flat, the drapes pulled shut, wrapped around John and sleeping past noon. Getting a case at sunset and solving it by sunrise. Annoying Mrs. Hudson as she left cold tea services everywhere. Maybe even shoot the wall just for old time's sake. He found himself missing things he didn't know he could miss.

He heard the shower in the bathroom, and Violet's empty bed confirmed where she was. He hadn't spoken to her since she dragged John out last night. She wasn't one to get overly emotional, so he wasn't worried about her reaction to his confession. John, though, he would be emotional. His poor doctor. Always feeling everything at once, flashing rapidly from one emotion to another like flames jumped from house to house. But his emotions when it came to Sherlock were very welcome. Addictive, actually.

John stirred, and Sherlock watched as he slowly woke up. His eyes would be blank, unthinking, then he would notice where he was, and who he was with. It made Sherlock's heart race every time he saw John see him after waking. There was no better proof of how the doctor felt about him than in those few seconds. John smiled at him, the gentle, loving, sweet smile he never showed anyone else.

Sherlock leaned in, and kissed his doctor, lingering over the slow heat that simmered inside him as John responded. He really missed his flat right now. Broken ribs be damned, next time he got some alone time with John, he was doing everything he wanted. Everything.

"So cute." Violet sighed from the bathroom door, wearing a long tee and extra short shorts, towel drying her hair. "But I probably shouldn't be thinking that, you being my uncle and all."

John yanked back, looking guilty to be caught making out. Sherlock grinned, and sat up. He was sick of laying down, anyway. Sherlock undid the drip, and slowly stood. John was at his side almost instantly, but Sherlock waved him off, needing to see if he could handle walking on his own. He could, and took a few steps before swallowing his pride and reaching for John.

"Mary let slip the truth, I see." Sherlock said to Violet. "I figured as much after John texted me last night."

She nodded, her eyes looking at him very intently, as if she were looking for signs of her father in him. She would see a lot, as Sherlock was a close copy of his eldest brother. It was Mycroft who took after their mother, but for the eyes. Sherlock and Sherrin had taken after their father.

"I'll tell you everything after I get a shower." Sherlock told her, and he gently nudged John in the direction of the bathroom.

"I'm going to get dressed then, and if I hear sounds of too much fun in there, I'm going to the cafeteria for breakfast." Violet smirked at the look on John's face. "A very long breakfast."

* * *

"Sherlock, behave." John muttered to him, trying to avoid his hands as Sherlock reached for him. The water was hot, and Sherlock wanted company under the spray. John was being obstinate, and was getting his clothes wet as a result. Sherlock saw the bag hanging from the back of the bathroom door, knew John had a change of clothing, and snagged John's wrist.

"Violet left two minutes ago. Come here, John." Sherlock pulled as hard as he could, which wasn't very hard, given his ribs. John's shirt got wet, and his doctor broke down in laughter.

"Fine! Christ, you are stubborn." John was grinning, but his shirt came off, and the rest of his clothes followed. John jumped under the spray, gasping at the heat. And his mouth was on Sherlock's faster than the detective could blink.

Strong, powerful tongue strokes fueled the fire between them. Sherlock dipped his head, and kissed John so deeply he felt his head spin. His doctor tasted wonderful, his wet mouth making Sherlock thirsty for more of him. John was groaning, his hips pressing to Sherlock's, his arousal hardening, encouraging Sherlock's length to harden as well. Sherlock wanted John badly, in any way he could get him. His hand slid down John's chest, rubbing at the firm muscles of his stomach, down to his groin.

Sherlock stopped. John had stilled, his hips jerking back. John's mouth beneath his was pulling away, and his doctor was breathing in rapid, shallow breaths. As if he was scared. He saw John's face. His doctor was terrified.

"John?" Sherlock whispered, bringing his hands back up, curving behind John's shoulders. Sherlock's eyes dropped to the red welts on his doctor's neck, the heat from the shower making them stand out a brilliant scarlet. Sherlock felt his world tip on its axis, his stomach growing cold with fury. Not at John, never at the man he loved. But at the men who had hurt his love, who were dead and burned. Beyond his reach, beyond his ability to torture and maim.

"John, I love you. Tell me what you need. Anything." Sherlock pulled John close, and his heart snapped like thawing ice as John wrapped his arms tightly around him. Sherlock ignored the pain caused by his lover's embrace, and held John under the warm spray.

"I'm so sorry. It's not you." John gasped out, his face pressed to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock suspected that the moisture wasn't all from the water. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened."

"Don't be sorry." Sherlock kissed John's ear, holding him tightly. "I'm sorry I was so late getting to you."

"No! You saved us, you stopped her. I stopped them. I stopped them! Why do I feel like this? I stopped them!" John cried out, and he pressed his face so hard to Sherlock's shoulder that they feel back against the shower wall. "I stopped them."

"You did, yes you did. You saved yourself." Sherlock murmured to him. "I won't tell you everything is okay. I know it's not. I won't lie to you, and say I understand. I don't. All I will say is that you stopped them, and you freed yourself. You fought back. And you're here with me, and I'll never let that happen to you again. I love you."

John was so tightly pressed to him that the water couldn't get between them, spilling over their shoulders. Sherlock held him back, not caring that John's grip was making his eyes water. Whatever his love needed, he would give.

"He hurt me." The whisper was so low Sherlock feared he didn't hear all of it. He bent his head down, John shivering in his arms despite the heat from the water. "His hand hurt me…. There."

Sherlock fought not to react. He just held John, and let the rage flow out of him with the water. He knew instinctively that getting upset as John told him this would merely make John stop confiding. Sherlock just waited, hoping John would keep going. Hoping that talking about it would help John.

"My hands were tied behind my back." John said, a little louder this time. "I couldn't push him off of me. He had said….Something about…. That since I liked it when my freak of a detective fucked me, I should have a real man fuck me."

Sherlock rubbed his shoulders, pulling John further under the warm water as he shivered. He said nothing, letting his silence be all the encouragement John needed.

"He picked me up, threw me on the table. Crushed my hands." John wasn't lifting his head, letting his forehead rest on Sherlock's strong shoulder. "He opened my belt."

Sherlock felt sick, in his heart, in his stomach. _Oh John. I'm so sorry. _Sherlock had seen the signs at Blackwood Manor, the clues that had lead him to the realization that John had been assaulted. He had assumed that when John didn't react to him removing his belt the day before that he was okay. He just hadn't gone far enough. _I'm sorry. I'm such an idiot._

"I love you." Sherlock whispered, knowing he had nothing more important to say than those words.

"He put his hand down there, grabbed me. Hard. It hurt, it really hurt. I was so fucking scared. So mad….." John said the rest in a rush. His words tripping over themselves, as if saying them made it happen all over again. "I kicked him off of me."

"He came back at me, and he bit me, crushed me, put his hand back on me….. I went limp. Like I had passed out. He pulled back enough….. For me to break his nose." John sounded mad now. Sounded angry. He still held Sherlock tightly, but the broken fear and pain was fading.

"I broke his fucking nose, and rolled off the table. I got free, snapped the restraints. I grabbed a gun from the table, was about to kill the guy with the shotgun when Death's knife landed in his temple. Good thing too. I would have been hit. He fired wide when he died."

"She saved me. Killed the guy I took out like he was a rabbit, and she was a rabid wolf. You saw what was left of him, nothing but ripped meat. She saved me. I know why too." John pulled back, and Sherlock watched his face. He looked tired, but equally wide awake. The storm was passing, for now. "She kept screaming, 'never again in this house.'"

"Never again." John sucked in a deep breath, and he wiped at his face. Sherlock let him pull away, and John reached for the soap. Sherlock smiled slightly as John attacked him with the soap, letting his doctor do what he wanted. Anything to return a smile to his face. "She told me that Blackwood was her childhood home. And she was raped there."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He had nothing. He let John wash him, and John kept talking, and Sherlock listened. John looked better after every word. He wanted an outlet, and Sherlock had no problem being that ear he seemed to need.

"I felt bad for her. She wasn't born crazy. Which is weird, because if she was born normal, then he was, too." Sherlock knew who 'he' was. John paused, the soap running from his hands to the shower floor. "Something fucking horrible happened in that house, to them. They were just kids, normal kids. And a monster destroyed them."

Sherlock felt cold shiver run down his spine. Monsters came in all shapes. The guise of a father, a mother, a brother. Especially brothers. His own brother had been a monster, too.

John turned him around, his fingers massaging the soap into Sherlock's tense and sore muscles. Sherlock groaned, and felt guilty for enjoying the attention. John didn't stop, his hands drifting over Sherlock's firm ass, his thighs. Sherlock was thankful his body didn't react beyond some gentle tremors. He didn't want to embarrass John, make him uncomfortable.

"I love you, Sherlock." John kissed the back of his shoulder, firm and solid. "Thank you."

"For what?" Sherlock risked the question, hoping he could speak to John now, that it was okay.

"For listening. You're pretty good at it." John sounded surprised. "Usually you're doing all the talking, and I'm trying to catch up. So thank you."

"Um. You're welcome?" Sherlock thought that was the right thing to say. John broke out in laughter, his wet arms circling Sherlock from behind. He laughed into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiled, bringing his hands up to hold John's, where they rested on his stomach. "I love you too, John."

The shower ended fairly soon after that. John relaxed, and appeared not at all bothered that he had poured out his experience to his detective. Sherlock took that as a good sign. That meant he had done the right thing, just letting John talk. Hopefully he had helped. He wasn't sure. But he would keep trying. Anything for John.

John helped him get dressed. Sharing bathroom space was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had been doing it for years. Sherlock was glad to be back in normal clothing, the hospital gowns left a lot to be desired. John refused to let him wear a jacket, and the doctor rolled up his sleeves so his IV site was accessible.

John opened the door for Sherlock, and he knew he wasn't getting out of making a confession. Violet was back. She was dressed, on the futon. And she was tapping away at her laptop, the charging cord wrapped around her foot, and she was swirling it in circles.

"Hey, Uncle Sherlock." Violet said, grabbing a half-eaten bagel from the paper plate beside her hip. "Brought nibbles, on the stand next to your bed. Tea, too."

John threw Sherlock a glance, wondering at her tone. Her words were as normal as she usually got, but she sounded strained. Off key.

"Yes, Violet. I am your uncle." Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the morphine drip. He ignored the insidious voice deep in his soul that whispered he should use it. Just to get past this conversation. He looked back up at the young woman who bore his brother's face, his memory altering her features, wiping away her mother's influence. He saw Sherrinford in her, so clearly, so much so he had to blink away the recollection. And he wondered how Mycroft never saw it. But maybe he had. Denial could strike anyone.

Sherlock grabbed a paper cup, idly looking at the lukewarm tea.

"I won't waste time saying I'm sorry, or making excuses. Foolish sentiment. I'm not certain I would be telling the truth, really." Sherlock ignored John's glare at his words. Violet was like him, she would appreciate his intent, and ignore the words that were inadequate to convey everything he tried to say.

"His name was Sherrinford, the eldest of us. Three sons. My parents started early, having children, but finished their higher education before they had Mycroft. And I came along much later." Sherlock wasn't seeing the hospital room, the girl who watched him silently from the futon. He was seeing those long lost years. She was so close in age to him that is seemed silly to call her his niece.

"Sherrinford was fifteen years older than me. Almost sixteen. Mycroft is my elder by seven years. He had more time with Sherrin than I did. I was still a child when Sherrin fathered you." Sherlock struggled not to tell the story out of order. He shouldn't make this harder to understand. John was quiet, watching him from the chair next to the bed. Violet was still, staring at him so hard he could almost feel the sensation of her gaze on his face.

"He was away at school most of my younger years. I saw him during holidays, but his age was so much greater than mine that we never really got along all that well. He was not safe to be around, anyways." Sherlock took a sip of the warm tea, and made a face at the nasty flavor. He put the cup down, and sat further back on the bed.

John's expression was clouding; Sherlock's words a premonition of doom.

"Sherrin was a sadist. Pets would disappear from neighbor's yards. Children at school would be bullied, harassed. Tormented in tiny ways that destroyed them every time. I spent most of my time with my mother, as I was the youngest. I never liked my brother. Mycroft would follow Sherrin everywhere. He idolized him. So much so, he ignored the vicious streak, the violent tendencies. Sherrin enjoyed making people bleed. If he fought, he would strike for maximum pain, for the most damage. The more someone bled, the happier he got."

"I could tell you dozens of stories of things he did, to me, our parents, Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. But I won't. I can't. Some of those are not mine to tell. Sherrin was our monster." Sherlock sent himself away, deep into his mind palace. He went back to the red house on the fair green hill. Heard the weeping of his mother, his father's shouts. Sherrin's laughter. Redbeard's barks, his final yelp of pain before Sherrin slit his throat. Sherlock flinched at that memory, turning away from it.

"My parents sent him to hospitals, to doctors. He went through therapy, counseling. He knew the systems, the right responses. He would be released, let free in the world. He was in his late teens the first time he murdered someone." Sherlock knew he was being heartless, emotionless. But he had no other way of telling this horrible part of his history. He wasn't even telling all of it. Mycroft would have to tell the rest, if he could.

"He killed the neighbor's daughter. I know he did. I saw the clues, the signs. As did Mycroft. He refused to believe it though, refused to acknowledge the truth. Mycroft refused to believe ill of his revered brother. Sherrin could do no wrong. Not in Mycroft's eyes." Sherlock saw the scene in his mind. Sherrin, a smudge of blood on his hand, the look of satisfaction on his face, the very young Sherlock hiding from the monster wearing his brother's face.

"He would disappear. And every time he did, a girl would die. Pretty ones, ones he liked. The police questioned him about the girls, but they had no evidence. A nasty reputation isn't evidence, after all. No one would listen to me, my deductions. I was small, just a child, too small." Sherlock changed the memory, one of him slightly older, Mycroft angry, sad. "As the years went by, he would disappear more frequently. The longest time he vanished is when he fathered you, Violet."

He heard a tiny indrawn breath, but he was too deep inside his mind to tell who it came from.

"He was a young man then, I was nearly seven. You were born that summer. I never knew you existed, though. Not until I met you at the university." Sherlock came back to the room. Violet was standing just a few feet away from him, her tan face paling. John was looking at her in concern.

"I believe he spared one of his victims. Seduced her, loved her, married her, or kidnapped her. Something made him still the blade. Spare her life. And then there was you. I don't know if he knew about you or not. He never mentioned a child."

"He died when I was fifteen. He died when Mycroft finally caught him. Mycroft killed Sherrin." Sherlock said that last part with a faint grimace, the first time he had ever spoken them to anyone. "He was working with MI6 at this point. Mycroft stopping Sherrin as he did propelled his career. And destroyed what was left of his heart, his emotions."

Sherlock looked at his niece. She had Sherrin's eyes, his face, and his hair. But she had her mother's smile, and the way she talked was not Sherrin. She was the best parts of his brother, none of the bad parts. She had his intelligence, and his ability to function under stress. But not the evil. There was no evil in her.

"There is much I don't know about Sherrinford. I am sorry for that. I remember seeing you at the university the day we met. I was struck by the resemblance. It wasn't until I graduated, and you stayed another two years, that I made the decision to see if you were who I thought you might be. I did a DNA test. The results left me stunned." Sherlock sighed, tired from ripping the memories out from the darkness.

"You are his child. I told no one. Not even you. I didn't know how. What could I say? Your birth father is a dead serial killer, slain by his own brother, who didn't kill your mother for some reason? And I don't know why?" Sherlock risked a glance at Violet. She was still, and pale. She was staring at him like she trying to catch him in a lie. "I found myself thinking that if you didn't ask if we were related, then you didn't want to know, that it wasn't important. I saw you wondering sometimes. But I let you not ask me, and I was thankful."

"I do know why I am telling you now." Sherlock reached out, hoping she wouldn't pull away from him. Her hand was cold, and unresisting. He gently tugged, bringing her in front of him. Her lovely eyes were dry, but her thoughts were chaotic in them, unraveling. "I'm telling you now because John has shown me what a complete idiot I am."

She wasn't expecting that. He saw her react, a tiny twitch near her eyes.

"John has shown me the necessity of saying even the most difficult of things. When I tell him I love him, it is because I do, I must. But a part of me still rebels, unused to such sentiment. But the rewards I get from saying it outweigh the discomfort. I wish I had met him all those years ago. I would have told you all of this sooner." Sherlock pulled her closer. "I would have been capable of saying it."

"I am your family. You are mine. There is a place for you in my heart. Next to John, next to Mycroft. I love you, Violet."

Sherlock waited. He rubbed her hand, pleased when the cold began to leave, warmth coming back into her body. She was so close to him, he could see life coming back into her face, her muscles. He figured she might strike him. Or push him away. Freeze him out, or pretend he had said nothing. He would deserve it all. He was a fool.

Her hug startled him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her face to his. She shook as sobs wrecked her frame. Tears and laughter. Peals of laughter mixing with sobs. She cried all over him, and laughed as she did it. His arms found her, held her close. He rested his chin on her shoulder, and found himself smiling. His eyes were wet, and he couldn't believe it when a single tear escaped, ran down his face.

John was watching them, a hand pressed tightly to his mouth. John was crying too, tears unnoticed on his cheeks. That sight moved Sherlock as deeply as the weepy laughter of the woman he held.

"I'm gonna have to stop calling you Sexy." She sputtered. "It's a bit weird, now."

Sherlock laughed, and she joined him.

* * *

Mycroft stood in Lestrade's room, watching the DI breathe. Each rise and fall of his chest soothed the maelstrom that was brewing in Mycroft's heart. Greg would live. Mycroft would, too. But living meant dealing with things he thought long dead and buried. Sherrinford. He had been wiped from existence, but for the living legacy that was upstairs with his little brother.

_Violet is Sherrinford's daughter. Not possible. I killed him. Sherrinford died. But she is, I see it. Why didn't I see it before?_

"Sir?" Anthea had escaped her room, standing at his elbow. She was in regular clothing, a short sleeved blouse on to accommodate her sling and cast. Mycroft had been on his way to collect her, to take her home. The repairs to his house were complete enough that he felt comfortable letting her leave the hospital.

He had been drawn to Greg's room, unable to stay away. Watching the DI sleep was calming him down. He had been restless all night thinking about both of his brothers. His little brother was going to be the cause of so much grief, yet Mycroft was thankful he was still around to cause trouble.

"Anthea, dear. I was coming for you." Mycroft murmured, pulling her mobile from his pocket. It had survived being dropped on the stairs during her kidnapping, and he had held on to it since. Mycroft turned from Greg's sleeping form, and gave it to her.

"Oh." She gasped softly, her good hand wrapped tightly around it. "Thank you."

She sounded teary, and Mycroft caught the glimmer of moisture in her eyes. She didn't start crying, which he was thankful for. He didn't know what to do with tears. Especially her tears, as he had never seen her cry. Not even when she thought she was going to die.

"Shall we go?" Mycroft asked her, taking her coat from the back of the chair where he had left it.

"Don't you want to stay with him?" She asked, her green eyes searching his face. "I know you do."

"I….." He was surprised. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't know what to say to her.

"You love him, Mycroft." Anthea shrugged into her coat, as he held it open for her, frozen in shock at her plain statement of fact. "You're in love with him. Stay."

"I… What about you?" Mycroft ignored her comment, knowing as he did that she would take it as confirmation. He was still trying to fathom it.

"Have the car take me home. You've been running the country from this room for the last three days anyway, and I'll feel better knowing you aren't worried about DI Lestrade while you're at home with me." She used her good arm to keep her coat pulled over her sling, her eyes still locked on his face. "Don't feel bad about me. Please don't. I know you care. I want you to be happy, so stay."

"Will you be alright?" Mycroft asked her, his fingers brushing a strand of rich brown hair back from her eyes. What a lovely shade of green, her eyes. He had thought to never see them again.

"I am going to sleep in my own bed, in my home, and I'll be glad to do so. The doctors told me to rest, and I'll resume my normal duties tomorrow. Thankfully, I'm not a field agent." Anthea gave him a tiny smile. "Being your personal assistant has its privileges."

"So it does. And you'll never need worry about losing them, either." Mycroft had no intention of ever losing her again. She was his, and he had yet to analyze what that meant for the two of them, and the man sleeping mere feet away. He would do anything to keep them both.

Mycroft held very still as she came to him, and rose up on her toes. She kissed him, her lips soft on his cheek. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume. She was real. He opened his eyes as she drew back, and he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. She smiled at him, and slowly walked away. She looked at the man still sleeping, and Mycroft had no idea what her expression meant as she left the room.

Two agents followed behind her. He set them to watch over her, and he knew she wouldn't argue about their presence. She would send them away once she felt them unnecessary. She knew they were there more for his peace of mind than hers.

He went to the small desk in the corner of Greg's room. He grabbed his bag, pulling out his laptop as he did so. Mycroft had set up this space not long after Greg woke up the first time. Anthea had been right; he had been running the country from this small desk for the past three days. And he would continue to do so until the Prime Minister or Her Majesty bid him leave.

Mycroft went to work, facing the DI as he slept on. Mycroft wanted to be there the instant he woke up. He wanted to see the look Greg had given him after he woke up that first time. He was certain it was the most important expression he had ever seen in his life.

Mycroft pulled up the reports from his people and Scotland Yard. As of yet, there was no sign of the woman known as Mary Morstan. Some of his people were theorizing she had died in the explosion. Or that she was already out of the country. Mycroft had a feeling she was still here. She was still in London, somewhere.

Sherlock had come to the conclusion that she had been responsible for bombing CAM Tower, and the death of Magnussen. There was no proof whatsoever that she had done it, but the timing and the connections made it unlikely that she wasn't involved. She was involved with Jaime Moriarty. Her participation in Sherlock's ambush, and her assault on his brother were irrefutable.

Anthea had told him that Mary had spared her life, and the life of Moriarty's two other hostages. Mycroft didn't know what to make of that. She had been willing to participate in Moriarty's plans, even negotiating her own terms. Then, according to what he had gotten from Violet, and Anthea, she had radically changed her position, and helped Sherlock stop Moriarty. Mycroft had a feeling Anthea knew why, but she wasn't forthcoming. He was loathing pressuring her into telling him. She had been through too much. She would tell him if it was important. That is, if he didn't figure it out first.

But Morstan's reasons for flipping allegiances were irrelevant until he found her. He would have plenty of time to ask all the questions he wanted once she was in custody. The CIA had been in contact, inquiring as to the status of their rogue agent. He had replied that her whereabouts were currently unknown. Mycroft had a suspicion that his reply did not sit well with his American counterpart, and that the CIA would get involved in the search directly if she wasn't found soon.

He opened another report, this one concerning Blackwood Manor. No bodies had been recovered. He wasn't surprised. The explosion had been massive, and the resulting fire hotter than anything he had been expecting. There would be no proof of Jaime Moriarty's death, other than the assurances he could provide that she had been locked in that cell mere minutes before the manor was destroyed. No one could have escaped. Not even a Moriarty.

Mycroft did his best to ignore the thread of unease that was worming its way through his gut. He would have felt better if he had a cold corpse as proof, instead of ashes.

* * *

Violet was pretending to still be asleep on the futon as Sherlock argued with the 'idiot doctor, no not you, John!' Sherlock's hospital doctor was clearly fed up with the consulting detective's behavior. Apparently he wasn't supposed to be fiddling with his morphine like he had been. And John sleeping with him wasn't 'helping' his recovery. Bed rest to this doctor actually meant rest, not snuggling.

Violet smirked, and covered her mouth with her blanket as John got red in the face. John had given up trying to calm Sherlock down. He was sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, a hand covering half of his face as he struggled not to laugh. He knew what his detective was doing. Sherlock was being as obnoxious as possible so he could get discharged early. Violet didn't see it happening, regardless of Sherlock's determination.

It was the day after Sherlock's revelations, and the early morning light was streaking in the room across the floor. She was shaded under the window itself, the sill blocking most of the light. They had only been here for four or five days, and Sherlock was meant to be in the hospital for at least another week. John had tried to see about getting Sherlock discharged to his care, but someone (Mycroft) had beat him to it, making sure Sherlock would not be allowed to leave until his lung had healed more.

Sherlock had lacerated it severely, and it was a miracle his lung hadn't collapsed. The internal bleeding had stopped, but any strenuous activity could reopen the injury. Like going home to Baker Street, and taking the inevitable case that came his way. Which it would. His email was flooded, thanks to John.

John had borrowed Violet's laptop, and updated his blog. It was a very good thing that this hospital had an overabundance of security, as the press was literally camping in the parking lots. John hadn't mentioned Mary, but everything else was out in the world now. He had left her out too. Not that she minded. All of her hacking and research had been under Sherlock's direction, so he should get the credit. Violet had stopped MI6 from crashing John's blog, as he wasn't 'authorized' to be disclosing 'classified' information.

_Fuck that! Sherlock, John, and Mary saved London. And me, but I'm not in the blog, thankfully. Admittedly, Mary did help wreck it too. But she wasn't mentioned, so the rest of it is fair game. Shame on Mycroft for trying to cover it all up. Though John's blog isn't really 'sanctioned' so the government can deny all of it as they see fit. Not that the world believes them._

She knew Mycroft was furious, especially at her. She had protected John's site long enough that enough people saw it, shared it, and linked it. Once that happened, there was no point in crashing the site. They might have had a chance at stopping the truth from getting out if she hadn't been around.

The whole world now knew the name of Jaime Moriarty. Some might even say she had eclipsed her brother. In many ways, it was too bad that she was dead. She might have appreciated her celebrity.

One of the pluses of John's blog was that everyone knew that DI Lestrade had nearly died saving St Bart's from exploding. There were people petitioning for him to receive promotions, commendations, and so much more she couldn't remember. Mycroft couldn't complain about that, surely. Though he probably was. Lestrade was able to stay awake for longer periods now, and she had snuck down late last night, to see Mycroft sitting at his bedside, holding his hand.

Anthea was supposedly at home. Where she lived with Mycroft. That had made Violet's eyes twitch. A sexy woman lived with Mycroft? She had shrugged, and went down to raid the cafeteria. He had seen her in the doorway, but he didn't acknowledge her at all. Before, he would have glared, or made shooing motions with his hand. But now, after Sherlock had told him who she was, Mycroft just stared right through her. She didn't mind that much. Mycroft had never meant as much to her as Sherlock. She didn't see that changing anytime soon.

The hospital doctor threw up his hands, and stormed from the room. She hadn't been paying attention, so she didn't know what got him upset enough to leave.

"What's his problem?" Violet mumbled, tossing off the blanket. She sat up, and shook out her hair.

"He didn't appreciate my observations about his penchant for wearing women's undergarments." Sherlock smirked from the bed. He was wearing regular clothes again, but this was his last set. She would either have to get his clothes dry cleaned, or run back to Baker Street.

"Eeeeeeeeew." Violet crinkled her nose at the thought of the fifty something, overweight, and rude doctor wearing lingerie. If he wanted to, that's cool, but the visual was disturbing. "Please do not tell me how you know."

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her anyway, and she threw her pillow at him. He caught it, a huge grin on his face.

"Hey now kids, none of that." John warned them, but he had a smile on his face too. John was smiling at her, and she caught the sideways glance he sent to Sherlock. As if they were silently talking about her.

"What?" She demanded, hopping off the futon. She was wearing nothing but her super short daisy dukes, and a t-shirt that was long enough to be a dress. She was running out of clothing too. _Shopping! Sweet! If the stores are open…. Ugh._

John got pink on his cheeks, and studiously looked away. She found that hilarious. Yesterday he would have looked just fine, and appreciated the sight. But today, she could see she was clearly labeled under 'Sherlock's niece, NO looking'. Violet snickered, and met Sherlock's eyes. He was amused at his doctor too.

"Well, c'mon! Don't hold out on me, that look meant something." Violet crossed her arms over her chest, glaring good naturedly at the doctor and her uncle._ Uncle! So weird. But nice._

"Sherlock wants you to move in with us." John blurted it out. "And me too."

Violet felt her face go slack with surprise. She had been planning on just moving in, not asking, just doing. She hadn't expected an invitation. Especially since they were both so clearly still in the 'let's have sex all the time because our relationship is new and super-hot' stage. Not that them having sex bothered her at all, she just knew people tended to ignore everyone else while at that stage.

John looked nervous she hadn't responded, and he hurried to convince her.

"There's the spare bedroom upstairs. I'm not using it anymore. You would be welcome." John bit his lip, and sent another look to his lover. "Unless you were planning on leaving. Sherlock said you moved around a lot."

Violet blinked, and pretended she had an eyelash in her eye, wiping away the tiny bit of moisture that threatened to betray her. Sherlock was quiet, his eyes tracing her every move. She couldn't read his expression.

"Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, never mind, it's okay, really….." John didn't get to finish that sentence before she was sitting in his lap, hugging him tightly around the neck. He exhaled as she settled in, and she didn't care that he had no idea with what to do with his arms. She hugged Sherlock's doctor, and kissed him on the cheek.

"You're sweet, John." She pulled back, and laughed at the deep red blush on his face. "And I know you want me there for Sherlock, and he wants me there so he can keep an eye on me. He's not slow, he knows why I'm hanging around. Well, one of the reasons."

She kissed John smack on the lips, and got up. Sherlock was blinking at John's very red face, but the doctor was smiling, so she knew he enjoyed himself. She backed up, and tossed a look between the two men. John was gaping at her, before he lowered his brow and turned on Sherlock.

"What does she mean, you know the real reason she's hanging around?" John asked Sherlock. Violet disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her uncle to explain just what it meant to have Violet Hunter as a flat mate. Or should it be Violet Holmes now?

* * *

Sherlock had thoroughly enjoyed, and been slightly confused by, John's reaction to Violet this morning. Poor John. He had no problem admiring her when she wasn't related to Sherlock, but the second he learned she was, she was suddenly a new and terrifying creature. Sherlock was wondering why John was blushing furiously, but his doctor still managed to glower at him.

"Violet is a hacker, John." Sherlock stated the obvious, hoping he wouldn't have to drag this out.

"Yeeeessss, I know." John gave him a look that said he might need to elaborate. Sherlock sighed, and dropped his head on his pillow.

"Everything about her chosen profession is illegal, in every country she frequents." Sherlock looked at John, hoping he'd connect the dots. No such luck.

"Violet is still here, even though you've been rescued, and I'm no longer on the lamb, because she needs protection." Sherlock watched as John's face drained of color, and went glacial. John Watson was an admirable man. Quite willing to save a damsel in distress. No matter who she was.

"Who's after her?" John's voice was lower, and Sherlock tried his best not to grin at the protective look on his face.

"Everyone, I suspect. She is literally the best in the world, John." Sherlock wasn't bragging. He didn't brag about anyone except himself. Violet was exceptional at what she did. "Violet will occasionally acquire admirers, zealous fans who want more than she's willing to provide. Clients, who hire her for jobs, then decide it's easier to kill her than to pay her. She has enough enemies, and nations, after her for a variety of reasons. This time the attention is too much, so she's hiding under the nebulous protection of knowing me, and through me, Mycroft and MI6. No one will bother her while she's with us."

"What? How often does she use you guys for cover?" John was surprised, and he turned to glare at the bathroom door.

"John." Sherlock smiled as John dragged his attention from the closed door, and back to him. "It's not a problem. She hasn't used me for cover in several years, so I suspect it has something to do with recent events. Most likely her current trouble occurred when she hacked the CIA, when we asked for her help. You do recall how upset she was when she realized what we were asking?"

John nodded, and his face went from indignation to guilt.

"I suspect she was currently avoiding the attentions of the American government at the time, and our request merely intensified their scrutiny. She doesn't leave clues as to her identity, she is that skilled. Yet conversely, it is her skill level that identifies her. No one is as good as she is, so when the impossible happens, the probability is in favor of Violet being behind it."

"She was most likely going to cash in the favors we owe her for her assistance by staying with us until it was safe for her to leave." Sherlock heard the shower turn on in the bathroom, and he knew Violet approved of how he was filling in John. Of course she had been listening the whole time.

"The reality of our relationships changes the dynamic, but does nothing to negate the necessity of her staying with us, for her sake. Now all we need to do is a bit of sweeping, and I can…. We can go home."

He tried his best not to let that last bit come out in pathetic whine, but he knew he failed miserably when John got up, and kissed him. It was very nice kiss, and Sherlock planned on doing some more whining if that was the result.

"We get the flat clean, you heal up some more, and then we can all go home."

* * *

The hill top was still smoldering. Days after the explosion, after the fire devoured Blackwood Manor, the remaining rubble was still hot, smoke furling in the still night air. The site was closed off, the investigators done with the scene, but restricted from the general public. So if someone saw the lone figure walking through the soot stained grass, they might have assumed it was someone who was allowed to be there. Some fanciful people might even call it a ghost, a wraith born of misery and fire. In many ways, it was the only soul with the most valid claim to be on these haunted grounds.

Slim, shrouded in a long black coat, and walking with an easy, elegant stride, the lonesome figure paused beneath the remaining section of wall. It was half a story tall, and contained the void of a window frame. It was the window to the old manor's private study, a window that now looked out at nothing. There was nothing left of the misery, the pain, the horror that had once echoed off the stone walls. It was all gone. All the ghosts once trapped in this house were now free.

The shrouded wraith took one last look, before turning away. The coat opened just enough for the moon to catch on the long silver blade strapped to a muscular thigh.

This ghost was free as well, determined to never return. Free to fade away in the night air, dreaming of new possibilities.


	36. Epilogue of Part One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**Warning: Heavy on the feels. **

**No worries, the story isn't over! Part Two will begin on the next chapter. Just wait until you see the new villain. I love writing the baddies.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Six**

_**Epilogue of Part One**_

Sherlock was fidgeting. He knew it, John knew it, and Sherlock's niece knew it. He was being fairly annoying, but not a single part of his body cared. He was going home, after nearly two weeks in the hospital.

Baker Street was repaired. John had supervised between spending his days at the clinic, and his nights in the hospital with Sherlock and Violet. The weekends had seen Sherlock's dear doctor covered in dust as he cleaned up the flat, organizing repair crews and wielding a hammer as often as the hired men. Moving Sherlock back in was easy, as the man didn't care about the state of the flat, but Sherlock knew John had tried so hard because of Violet.

John could do nothing about the ruined building across the street from their flat. The city was cleaning itself up fairly quickly in the wake of Jaime Moriarty's rampage of grief. There was little left in the streets of the damage caused, just vacant lots where buildings had once stood. The historical places, like the Tower and the Old Bailey, had withstood the explosions far better than the more modern buildings. The Tower had just shrugged off the fires, and was quickly on its way to being fully restored.

The total number of lives lost to the bombings was not as high as it could have been. Had Violet and Sherlock not warned MI6 of the imminent explosions, and sent out the list of potential targets, thousands of people could have died. For all that there was only a ten minute warning, those ten minutes meant the difference between all lives lost, and the couple hundred that fell instead. The casualties were still staggering, and London would not heal anytime soon. The wrath of the Moriarty clan had scarred London deeply, and it was a blessing in some ways that Jaime Moriarty and her brother were now past all reach. She especially would have found no mercy behind bars. No mercy in the legal system of the country she had nearly burned to the ground.

MI6 was still hunting Mary, but Sherlock and Violet were monitoring their lack of progress in finding her. Mycroft would occasionally send people to tail John, under the correct assumption that if anyone knew, it would be her former lover; but his doctor was careful, and had yet to betray Mary's location by making mistakes. Sherlock could not tell if Anthea had revealed to Mycroft that Mary was pregnant. John was determined to keep Mary safe, for her sake, as well as their unborn child's. John and Mary were attempting to get to a point where they weren't shouting at each other at every meeting, and Sherlock had no worries that they might reconcile. The expression on John's face when he came back to his detective gave Sherlock all the evidence he needed to feel secure in his doctor's love.

Sherlock settled in his seat in the back of the cab, and cast a glance at his niece. She was absorbed in her mobile, her thumb scrolling through something so fast that the average soul might think she wasn't reading any of it. Sherlock knew better. He did the same thing. She saw every word.

His niece had agreed to live with them, and Sherlock knew John was hoping she meant longer than the few weeks it would take for the pressure to be off of her. John wanted Sherlock to have family around that wasn't divisive, that didn't use him as unpaid labor in solving crimes Mycroft was too lazy to deal with himself. Sherlock had heard John tell Violet (while they thought him sleeping) that it was a pleasant surprise to meet a Holmes that didn't automatically make Sherlock go on the defensive. Sherlock felt an odd sensation in his chest when he heard Violet reply to John that Sherlock already had that, in the doctor. John was his family already. He had always been.

Mycroft refused to talk to her, and every time Violet saw him in the halls of St Bart's, he would act as if she didn't exist. Sherlock saw the annoyance his brother's behavior generated in their niece, but she had yet to voice a complaint. Discovering they were family hadn't improved their attitudes towards each other. While Violet may have been fond of Mycroft before, the MI6 man was doing his best to erode that regard away. She ignored him right back, and made her preference for Sherlock clear. Sherlock had told his parents about her, but Sherrinford had left deep wounds on his parent's hearts, and had yet to reach out to their only grandchild. Sherlock knew better than to push it. If they wanted to know her, they knew where she was. Sherlock had claimed her as his niece in front of the world, and he was content to be whatever level of family she needed. If he was to be it, then he would be the best uncle he could.

She needled her eldest uncle by becoming friends with Lestrade, refusing to leave the DI's room if Mycroft happened by at the same time. She had charmed the DI easily, and it was most likely due to the fact that she was Sherlock's niece. Everyone treated her with a combination of reference, disbelief, and skepticism when John started telling people who she was. She just smiled, and didn't elaborate on where she came from. People liked it better when they could make up her back story for themselves. If it wasn't for the fact that they were so obviously close in age, Sherlock didn't doubt that many would speculate that Violet was his daughter. If she were ten years younger, she would look like it.

Anderson in particular had become entranced by her, the one time he had spied her in the halls of St Bart's. He had been in to visit Lestrade, and caught her leaving the DI's room. The rumors had already spread, so even that humble soul was able to deduce who she was. Sherlock sighed, knowing that he would have to contend with Anderson following Violet around just as often as he followed Sherlock.

Violet had stayed at the hospital with him the entire time, leaving only with John. She would go on supply runs for Mary, or shopping for herself and Sherlock when they got low on clothing. John had borne up under it well, and Sherlock saw the very deep affection growing in John's heart for the newly revealed Holmes scion. She teased him mercilessly, and Sherlock enjoyed the faint blush that would grace John's cheeks when she did something particularly scandalous. The private suite at the hospital had taken on the air of a dorm room, and Sherlock grinned as he remembered the relief on the nurses' faces as they had left earlier that day.

The press had gotten word that he was being released, and it had taken Sergeant Donovan and a small group of police officers to clear a way out of the hospital to the cab. There had been no shortage of helping hands in carrying Violet's bags either. Sherlock smirked, as her appeal to the male sex was hilarious to him. He saw her beauty, but to him, she was just Violet.

The police were following behind, keeping the most persistent of reporters at bay. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at the lines of reporters following them to Baker Street. Donovan had sent patrol cars ahead to their flat, making sure no one got too close.

"So what's up with the betting books in this country? And did you guys know your odds are skyrocketing for having a spring wedding?" Violet didn't even look up from her mobile as John coughed in surprise. "You better tell me when you're tying the knot so I can make a killing on this."

"Ugh…." John groaned, and fell back against his seat, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. "We've been together for a month! Less than a month. Wow."

"Don't worry, Violet. I'll tell you. Make sure you split the winnings with me." Sherlock winked at his niece as John's jaw dropped. His doctor was staring at him so hard Sherlock started laughing, looking at John out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't you think there should be some talking about this?" John stuttered, his face alternating between gloriously happy, highly skeptical, and utterly confused.

"Hmmm. While I consider marriage to be rather ridiculous, I am well aware of the limitations of our current arrangement. Unless we sign dozens of papers, and jump through numerous legal hoops, we can never have the same level of control over the other partner's fate in the case of an emergency like we would if we just signed a marriage certificate. Considering the number of times I had to scold the doctors at St Bart's to make them tell you what you wanted to know about my recovery, marriage is rather prudent." Sherlock droned on, watching as John's face turned into a lovely mix of exasperation, confusion, and annoyance. He would fix all of that. "Especially considering our partnership. Solving crimes, chasing murderers, all that."

"But seeing as I love you, and I have no issue telling the universe that by marrying you, I will most assuredly say 'Yes', if you ever feel the desire to propose. But if you choose not to, I shall be content to spend my life at your side anyway." Sherlock leaned in to John as he said that last part, dropping a quick kiss on his doctor's lips. "I believe that's what is called a 'pressure free' proposal."

"I…. Sherlock!" John kissed him back, and Violet broke down into giggles. "I love you."

The cab slowed to a stop in front of Baker Street, and Sherlock saw the diminutive form of Mrs. Hudson waiting anxiously on the front step. Sherlock flew out of the cab as it stopped, leaving John to pay the fare. The police escort had closed the street, so Sherlock was able to ignore the flashes of cameras from the corners. Mrs. Hudson hugged him tightly, and Sherlock was glad she wasn't that strong. His ribs were better, but he was reminded on a daily basis that he wasn't going to be healing fast this time.

"My boys! Home at last!" She pulled back, and she squinted at his face, no doubt thinking of all the biscuits she would have to feed him to get him to put some weight back on. Hospital food was atrocious, and Violet hadn't let him have a single gelatin. "And where is my lovely girl?"

Violet stood back next to the cab, supervising the cops who had volunteered to help her with her luggage. Sherlock rolled his eyes. She had every one of Lestrade's people thoroughly infatuated.

Violet heard Mrs. Hudson, and she came over, letting the older woman fuss over her. Sherlock was bemused by the level of enjoyment that Mrs. Hudson displayed at seeing Violet. When John had told her that Violet existed, she had promptly demanded to be introduced. Their landlady had taken to Sherlock's niece as if she were the older woman's own granddaughter. Violet just soaked up the attention. Sherlock felt the faint stirrings of guilt, knowing that if he had spoken up years earlier, Violet wouldn't have been alone. He wouldn't have been alone.

They eventually all detangled themselves from the curb, and Sherlock grumbled as John held the back of his coat to keep him from leaping up the stairs to his flat. Their flat. He was never happier to be home. With the exception of that first day with John, when his doctor told him he loved him, and gave him his first kiss.

"Finally!" Sherlock tossed his coat, not seeing where it landed. He fell into his armchair, and groaned as the familiar seat pulled him in.

John picked up his coat from the floor, hanging their coats up behind the door. Violet threw herself on the couch, her laptop appearing from nowhere, already engrossed in whatever dubious activity she was up to. She was searching for something within the government's systems, something she was calling 'impossible'. And for Violet Hunter to call something impossible, then it must truly be amazing. Sherlock was waiting to see if she would need him. She had her talents, and she hadn't reached the point where she was needing help. So he watched, and waited.

She hadn't spoken of her father to him at all. She had only said that she had met him once, when she was very small, just under two years of age. She barely remembered him, and her mother had raised her alone, as far from him as she could get them. That had meant taking Violet to the United States, and raising her child under her maiden name. Violet had said her mother was married to her father, but she had no proof other than her mother's word. The only name Violet had for her father had been Ford. Sherlock had done his best not to react. Ford, short for Sherrinford.

Violet's mother had died when she was thirteen, and Violet escaped from the custody of child services. She had already been a highly skilled hacker and programmer by this point, and she erased herself from all public records, disappearing into the cities of America. One more child runaway invisible on the streets. She hadn't gone to England, and met Sherlock, until she was fifteen. She hadn't told him anything of her life in those two years. But from the shadows in her eyes, and the way she held herself, Sherlock knew, he knew, that it hadn't been pleasant.

John sat in his red chair, and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, making tea. John had his mobile out, and he was scrolling through Sherlock's email, his face clearly showing when he found something interesting. Sherlock was anxious for a case. And he had tasked John with finding the least boring one out of the hundreds in his mailbox.

Sherlock looked around his flat, watching the people in his life exist as they had always done. But this time he was seeing them differently. As if they were there for the first time, bright and shiny and new. In a way, they were. Sherlock had opened his heart to love, let John strengthen and re-forge his heart. The focus, control, clarity that John gave him was ever expanding. And the love John showed him was empowering. So he saw everything new through John. Because of him.

Sherlock Holmes was a man reborn. Pulled from the ashes of grief and loneliness, he had everything he needed and wanted in this life. Everything to protect, cherish. A lifetime ahead of him to deduce the miracles of his doctor's heart, and his own.

And the second John found him a new case, he would dare to say his life was perfect.

_**End of Book One**_

_**The fires of revenge might be out, but that doesn't mean they're safe now….. **_

_**Book Two begins in the next chapter. **_

_**Autumn is over, and blood will fall on Christmas snow.**_


	37. Part II- The First Snowfall

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**Warning: Violence, sex, and some super hot shower scenes. And some scary parts too.**

* * *

**Part Two**

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

"_**The First Snowfall"**_

(December, two weeks after the End of Part One)

"Sherlock!" John shouted down the hall. "Why does it look like the breakfast table was used as a funeral pyre?"

John stared down in disbelief at the burnt and battered table. This table had survived almost everything, from swords, experiments, heavy snogging sessions, and numerous breakfasts with two Holmes family members. But this morning, as John stumbled out of bed, where he had been resting peacefully in the arms of his detective, and gone to make tea, he saw the disaster. The table was bare, but the entire surface was charred, the center of which was burnt nearly all the way through.

"Oh my God, why is there shouting?" Violet mumbled as she groggily made her way to the kitchen from her room upstairs. She didn't even blink at the remains of the table, just walked past John to start making coffee. She was wearing her usual amount of sleepwear, which translated to tiny shorts and that long tee she favored. John had stopped blushing about a week ago.

"I'm shouting because your uncle decided to burn our kitchen to the ground." John groused as he reached for his travel mug, pouring his tea. "Don't know how he did that without me noticing."

"Huh?" Violet leaned against the counter, and pushed her raven dark hair out of her eyes. "Oh, wow."

She blinked her purple eyes at the table, and John threw his hands up in exasperation as a giant grin spread across her features.

"Uncle Sherlock that is some crazy shit! Show me how you did that, please." Violet said to the detective as he made his way into the kitchen. John's shout had dragged him out of bed, hours before he usually saw the sun. Sherlock didn't respond, just stole the nearest cup of warm liquid on the counter, and walked back to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't even speak, letting the slamming of his door communicate his displeasure at being woken up at the insane hour of seven in the morning.

"He's nuts." John said, pouring himself some more tea, and grabbing a handful of biscuits. He chewed thoughtfully, wondering if he would have time this afternoon to go shopping for a new table after work.

"You're the one sleeping with him. That means you're nuts too." Violet smirked good naturedly at him, and she giggled at the look on his face. "Go to work John, I'll keep Sherlock occupied."

"Just don't piss off too many foreign governments while I'm gone, having the flat bugged once a month is enough." John said as he went to take his shower.

Violet had more than made herself welcome when she had moved in two weeks ago. The first thing the hacker had done was sweep the entirety of the Baker Street flats. From the basement flat all the way to the roof which could only be accessed through a small hatch in the upstairs hall. To John's shock, she had neatly exorcised from their hidden nests over a dozen tiny microphones and cameras. She had 'killed' every one of them, pouring them out into John's hands like they were tiny black pebbles. Some were obviously newer than others, and a few had the look that they had been in place for years.

Sherlock had gotten an unreadable expression on his face, and John felt an unpleasant mix of anger and violation. He had asked her if she could identify them, but before she could answer, Sherlock had spoken up. "MI6 and the CIA." John had choked back his rage, and Violet had nodded in confirmation.

"Most of these are old, out of date. Been here for three to four years. Most likely around the same time you two first moved in here." Violet had picked up the tiniest of the lot, and stared hard at it as it rested on her fingertip. "This one is new. Very new, most likely installed by one of the repair guys you had in here fixing up the flat."

John had given them back to Violet at her insistence, claiming she could salvage them, and use them to their advantage in the future. John had wanted to crush them under his foot, but she just gave him a look that clearly said that was a silly idea. She really was a Holmes, to give him that look.

Violet had also given John a very big shock. Sherlock's niece was wealthy. Wealthier than he had thought she might be. He had the suspicion that being a hacker must be lucrative, as otherwise the risks of being caught would be too high. She had handed him a brown paper sack the morning after she moved in, and he had choked at the amount of money he spilled out of it. She just picked up all the notes, and dropped them back in the bag. The only thing she had said was that it was rent money. John had counted it, and still felt shock at the amount. She had given him what equaled out to be two years' worth of rent. In a brown paper sack. He felt like he shouldn't take it, until she leveled a glare at him that made him swallow nervously and say thank you.

John turned on the shower, his hand under the spray until it got hot. He looked to the door that led to their bedroom, but he could see no sign of Sherlock being up and about through the cloudy planes of glass. The detective had most likely gone right back to sleep. He stripped down, pulling shut the curtain as he got in. The hot water felt great, and he just let it run over his shoulders, hands braced on the shower wall. He was still partly asleep himself, so he didn't notice when the shower curtain opened.

He noticed he wasn't alone when he felt a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. Long fingered, strong hands slipped around his torso, and he felt his lover press along his back, chest to thighs. John said nothing, just pressed himself back, letting a hand rise up behind him, burying it in Sherlock's soft curls.

"Morning." Sherlock nibbled his ear, breath teasing his neck. John shivered despite the heat from the water, and he felt Sherlock grow hard against his lower back.

"Awake now, I see." John gasped as Sherlock slipped a hand down his side, grabbing his hip, massaging. "Thought you went back to bed."

"Couldn't sleep, too horny." Sherlock grumbled in his ear, and John laughed quietly. "You weren't there."

"Didn't get enough last night?" John closed his eyes, head falling back on Sherlock's shoulder as his lover's hands wandered down, gently grabbing him, and stroking his cock. Sherlock found that special place behind his ear, teeth and tongue nibbling and licking.

Sherlock sucked on his neck, and John didn't care if his lover left a mark. John shuddered as Sherlock got him hard, fingers knowing exactly what he liked.

"I'm an addict, John." Sherlock whispered in his ear, voice deep and sexy and making John feel like he was on fire. "I'm addicted to you. I'll never get enough of you."

The surge of lust that John felt at those words staggered him, and he groaned, writhing in Sherlock's arms. He tried to turn, but the taller man held him fast. John was so aroused he was having trouble seeing, breathing. Sherlock was hard, his arousal nudging at him, distracting him. Sherlock's hands on his cock were teasing him, keeping the rhythm just under the beat John would have liked.

"Sherlock, I want you." John gasped out, hands tugging at Sherlock's.

"Lean over." Sherlock ordered him, and John swallowed a cry in his throat. He was so eager he didn't even think, just slammed his hands on the shower wall, feeling Sherlock grasp his hips, pulling him back.

The water was running down his back, following his spine, pouring over his buttocks. Sherlock's fingers played in the water, dipping lower to his ass. John groaned, incapable of words. He was panting, head down, legs and arms shaking in need. John wanted to cry, so overwhelmed was he by what he was feeling. There was nothing left of the educated doctor, the veteran soldier, the caring best friend. John Watson was nothing but a quivering, aching, shivering storm of fire and lightning. Flashes of desire burned in him, responding to the caresses his lover was giving him.

Sherlock's fingers pressed lightly on his ass, and John desperately wanted him to push harder. Sherlock put a hand on his hip, restraining him from thrusting back against his lover's hand. Two fingers pushed, the water running right over the most sensitive place, and John shook. His whole body shook, and Sherlock rubbed his hip, soothing him. Those fingers kept pushing, the warm water easing their entrance. Sherlock pressed deep, not giving John time to adapt, stretching him, pushing in all the way.

John groaned, loudly, gasping for air. He couldn't speak. The pressure, the stretching sensation robbed him of thought. Sherlock slowly, maniacally, spread his fingers apart, opening John. The warm water from the shower flowed over Sherlock's fingers, the heat new and different, making John jump. Sherlock slowly pulled his fingers out, keeping them spread as he did, and John bit his lip to keep from screaming at how wonderful, how amazing it felt. He figured he was crying, but he couldn't feel the tears past the water running down every part of him. He didn't care, all he wanted was for Sherlock to be in him.

His detective read his mind. John's soft gasps were telling him all he needed to know about how ready John was.

When Sherlock finally positioned himself, taking John so slowly he thought he would die, John was lost. Lost completely in every touch, sensation. Sherlock had him in every possible way. Hard, so hard, and so unbelievably hot, Sherlock pushed until he seated his long length fully in John's ass. The doctor sobbed out a breath, shaking so violently he felt like he might collapse to the floor. Sherlock wrapped a strong arm around him at his waist, not moving. He was throbbing, buried deep. Nudging at John's core, and he clenched up in response. He was so tight, he pulled a groan at last from Sherlock, digging at the detective's control.

Sherlock leaned over him, and his free hand slid up his back, along his shoulder, and down his arm, to his hand as it pressed to the wall, where he twined their fingers together. Sherlock was over him, around him, deep inside of him. Everywhere.

When Sherlock finally began to move, John almost came all over their feet. That initial stroke felt like the very first, everything new and raw and wonderful. John cried quietly, so helpless in Sherlock's control. His detective pulled back, almost leaving his body completely, the head of his cock stretching his entrance. He held still for a heartbeat, before slowly pushing back in. John groaned, and gave up trying to increase the pace.

Sherlock was in control, thoroughly dominating him. John surrendered, and focused on what his lover was making him feel. Focused on how his weight felt on his back, how that strong, lean arm held him up and captive all at once, how his breath was ragged in John's ear, belaying his seemingly perfect control. Sherlock's fingers gripped his tightly, hardest as he seated himself fully back into John.

Sherlock kept that slow, deep pace. Again and again he took John, the water spilling over them both, falling from their straining bodies in tiny waterfalls. Each thrust was perfection, John crying softly, so willing to be helpless to the passion between them. Sherlock was swelling in him, larger and harder with every thrust. John cried out in encouragement as Sherlock increased his pace, needing the climax that was so very close.

The arm that Sherlock had wrapped around his waist moved, his hand grasping John's cock in a tight grip. He stroked John as he thrust faster, harder. So deeply John moaned as pleasure melded with pain. Sherlock moved faster, crying out with John in unison.

John erupted, coming hard as Sherlock hit that spot deep inside of him. John screamed, his shout bouncing off the tiles in the shower stall. He clenched around Sherlock, so tightly that he stopped Sherlock's thrusts, catching him deep inside, his full length swallowed by John's body. His climax triggered Sherlock's, and both men came together, crying out loudly in release.

John spilled himself out on the floor of the shower, the warm water washing his seed away, as Sherlock pumped himself in John's ass, the thick white wet heat making John sob at every burst. Sherlock was holding onto him, and his detective collapsed on John's back. Their combined weight made them fall against the shower wall, Sherlock still buried to the hilt in his doctor.

The water was still warm, falling over them. John was panting hard, shaking as rolling tremors of pleasure swarmed over his whole body. Sherlock had buried his face in John's shoulder, and John had the feeling Sherlock had bit him at some point during his orgasm. John didn't mind at all, part of him thinking past the orgasm that he wished he could see it.

They stood like that for the longest time, and John moaned lightly as Sherlock finally found the strength to move, pulling gently out of John. The doctor was finally able to turn, and he wrapped his arms around his lover's neck. Sherlock looked really sleepy now, eyes hooded and his face flushed. His expression was the most wonderful example of smug contentment John had ever seen. He smiled at his detective, and tipped his head back in invitation. Sherlock took him up on it, leaning down to kiss John. His lips were soft and firm all at once, gently molding to John's, the kiss slow and sweet and full of love. So much emotion in that nearly chaste kiss that John felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

Sherlock held him, and John hugged him back, his mouth opening under the gentle pressure from his lover's lips. Sherlock swept his tongue in, not too deep, just enough to touch the tip of John's tongue. Encouraging him to respond, which he did. John met his love stroke for stroke, telling him without words what he felt for him, how much Sherlock meant to John.

Sherlock pulled back after an eternity, and rested his forehead on the older man's.

"I love you, John Watson." His whisper flew through the short space between them, winging its way to John's heart. John smiled at his love.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Mary gripped the cold iron pipe that came out from the concrete wall with both hands, and pulled herself up. She lifted until her chin touched the bar, and held herself there for a beat before lowering down, keeping her toes from the floor. She repeated that move, over and over, until her shoulders screamed in protest. And she kept going.

Sweat poured down her back, and her muscles burned. She had nothing better to do than exercise, and her determination was showing. While she had been in decent shape before she went into hiding, now she was in fantastic shape. Her arms had defined themselves, her legs tighter, and her stomach was flat and firm. But for the slight swell of her growing child, which was barely noticeable.

Mary estimated she was nine weeks pregnant. No more. A little over four weeks since she learned she was pregnant. Mary never pushed her body too far, being careful not to hurt herself. But she also knew that her limited activity as a result of her hiding would be just as dangerous as exercising. Especially if she were found, and had to run. Or fight. So she kept in shape, slept eight hours a night, and ate as healthy as she could. Violet had been bringing her vitamins, and came twice a week with food and other supplies.

John would come with her, and each time Mary tolerated his incessant questions. Always asking how she was feeling, if there was anything she needed, if she wanted something she hadn't gotten. So very polite and distant. And she would be just as polite, and answer that she was fine. She knew that John wasn't trying to be annoying, that he really did care. But a part of her was starting to feel like a prize brood mare, valued only for the offspring she carried.

Mary had saved his life, saved Sherlock, the whole of bloody London because she was pregnant. She was pushed from her place of rage and pain by the knowledge she could not help destroy her child's father. Regret and remorse had soon followed, and she had betrayed Jaime Moriarty in an attempt to save everyone. She had even tried to save Jaime.

But the young assassin was dead. Or at least, the world assumed she was. Mary didn't know. There had been a slight chance that Jaime had gotten away before Blackwood Manor exploded. Mary had inadvertently given her a knife when she covered the young woman with her jacket. Mary could escape that cell in under five seconds with a knife; she had no doubt that Jaime could do it in two.

It was a chance that Mary kept to herself. She didn't want the world to hunt for a ghost if Jaime truly was dead. And a large part of her heart, that part of her that was the trained CIA assassin, rebelled at telling the authorities that a fellow operative may still be alive. Not to mention that her heart cared for Jaime Moriarty for more than she thought possible, more than she knew was wise. She was watching the news on the mobile gifted to her from Violet, and if she saw any hint that Jaime was alive, then she would say something to Sherlock. Until then, she would stay silent. If Jaime lived, and stayed out of trouble, then Mary would say nothing.

Mary dropped from the pipe, stretching her arms and shoulders. She had been exercising all morning, and she was feeling the stress of being inside too long. She was beginning to feel like she should have taken her chances on prison, considering that in jail she was at least guaranteed an hour outside a day. She hadn't stepped out once since she found herself here, in Sherlock's fake house, for four weeks.

She grabbed a change of clothing, and went to take a shower. The floor was cold under her bare feet, but she didn't mind. There was much she could withstand, tolerate, and the unpleasant coldness was a sensation. She hadn't been able to feel much the last few weeks, her heart, soul and mind numbed by the last couple of months. So she welcomed the discomfort, as it reminded her that she was alive.

She turned on the water, stripping down to bare skin, stepping under the cold water. The cold made her heart race, her skin shiver. She embraced it, and found her thoughts spinning. She fought down the urge to just step outside for some air, the desire to go for run, and the need to speak to anyone who wasn't Violet or John. Anyone. She'd even talk to Sherlock right now.

She may be alive, but she wasn't living. Mary was fading away, and the nameless assassin was taking over. She needed to survive long enough to bare this child. And Mary Morstan may not be strong enough to manage it. Something needed to change.

* * *

Violet was lying flat on her back in the middle of the floor in the front room when John and Sherlock came out from their bedroom. She glanced at her mobile, and smirked at the time. John was really late for work.

"I'd ask why you're on the floor, but since you look like you're okay, I'm just not going to." John said to her, standing over her. She had put on her sweats, and in response, lifted her closest leg to him, straight up in the air, toes pointed at the ceiling.

"Yoga." She wiggled her toes at him, and she laughed when he blinked at the very brilliant neon pink shade she'd painted them the night before. "This is the largest space for it. I usually only do this once you've left, but you're running a little late today."

"Ah. Yoga." John was perplexed, and he just looked down at her as she twisted herself into the facsimile of a pretzel. Well, to him she looked like a pretzel, but to her, she was in a pose called Galavasana. She sat cross legged, drew her folded legs up to her stomach, and lifted herself off the floor, supporting her whole body weight on the palms of her hands. She froze, and zoned out the men in the room, oblivious to John's stunned expression. In and out she breathed, until she hit a minute.

She knew John was still watching, so she kept herself upon her arms. She ducked her head, lifting her hips and legs up in the air over her upper torso, unraveling her legs as she went. She did it slowly, carefully, making it seem far easier than it really was. She put herself in a handstand, legs pressed together, toes pointed at the ceiling. She heard John shift on his feet in surprise, but she wasn't done yet. She changed how she bore her weight, still looking down at the floor, and pulled one arm away. She held herself up on one arm, the other pointed out in a straight line to the wall. That she held for as long as she could, refusing to show the strain she was feeling.

She grinned as John clapped, and she quickly dropped her arm and legs, landing in a crouch. She flipped her hair out of her face, and met his eyes, grinning happily the whole time. She hopped up, and bowed at the stunned appreciation on John's face. She was sweating something fierce now, but she was happy. Exercise always did that for her. Sherlock had thrown himself into his armchair, a very sated look on his face, but he had a small smile hovering about his lips.

"And that was your lesson for the day, grasshopper." Violet said, reaching out to poke John in the chest. "Though you got some exercise in already, I think."

"Um, yeah." John coughed, and Sherlock broke out in a pleased grin. "And on that note, I'm going to work. Don't destroy any more furniture while I'm gone."

"Yes, Captain Watson." Violet laughed at the blush on John's cheeks, but he smiled at her as he went to Sherlock, kissing him goodbye. "But he was the one who did it, I was busy not paying attention."

"And you're the only marginally responsible adult when I'm at work." John laughed, throwing on his heavy winter coat and gloves. The weather had been warning about snow all week.

"Me? What about Mrs. Hudson? Why does it have to be me?" Violet grumbled, but she was enjoying herself. "Have fun. You know, undescended testicles and piles and all."

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder. I'm not telling you anymore stories about my patients. You two get a case while I'm out, please save me by telling me." John waved and left for work. She heard the door close downstairs, and he must have called for a cab, as she heard it pull away from the curb.

"So, did you two save me any hot water?" Violet asked her uncle, who was relaxed so deeply in his chair he wasn't sitting as much as slouching. His head was resting on the back, and he cracked open a single eye at her. He looked seconds away from passing out, so tired was he. "Hmm. I see from that look the answer is no. Looks like I'm in for a cold shower."

She grabbed her towel, and watched as her uncle literally passed out in seconds. He looked so peaceful, and no older than she. It was so weird sometimes, thinking that this man she had known for the past eleven years was her uncle. He was all innocence when he slept. He was closer to her in age than any uncle should really be, so much so he felt more like a brother. She had been without family for almost half her lifetime, so she was learning as she went. So was he, she guessed. Their attitudes hadn't really changed that much, beyond it being easier to show affection. She more than he, but she knew he cared.

He cared, but none of the other Holmes family members did. Mycroft was still pretending she didn't exist, and she knew Sherlock had told his parents, her grandparents, that she existed. They hadn't responded beyond the expected disbelief. Violet knew better than to expect a huge family reunion. She was a criminal, albeit not a violent one. And she had never been convicted, either. And she was the daughter of a serial killer. That would put a lot of people off, even blood.

Violet went to take her shower, pulling her gaze away from Sherlock as he slept. The great detective and his doctor were all the family she needed.

* * *

Sherlock dozed, part of him following Violet's movements through the flat as she went about her day. She didn't chatter on like Mrs. Hudson did, nor did she make as much noise as John. She didn't pretend she wasn't there, or anything else equally silly. She was just naturally that way, only breaking out into endearing chatter when spoken to, or if she had something to actually say to him. And she was never boring. Unlike Mycroft, Violet had yet to bore him.

He heard her mobile chime, and she stopped making coffee as she checked her messages. It must be interesting, as she started humming Bach under her breath. She always did that when she was having fun, when she was happy. He stayed in his chair, eyes closed, hovering in that peaceful place between sleep and being awake. He was very tired, having spent the previous evening experimenting, then tearing up his bed with his doctor all night long. And then there was the shower. He loved showers now.

So Sherlock napped as his niece got her laptop, and sat in John's chair across from him. She liked watching him when she worked. He didn't mind at all. People always watched him. She was one of the few who did so without judging him. John was another. Sherlock knew he was about to fall asleep, and spun his mind down to his mind palace instead, letting his body go to sleep.

He stood in Trafalgar Square, within his mind palace, the sky above him bright with a late summer sun shining down. Sherlock sat on the side of the fountain, and with the barest effort, conjured pigeons into existence at his feet. He pulled up a distant memory, people finding their places in the square as they had been years before. He was replaying a memory, a good one. One of the few before John entered his life.

Sherlock was watching as if he were a bystander, and not part of the memory. The young man who sat nearby was absorbed fully in the book he was reading, dark curls tumbling in the wind. He was hunched over his book, hands holding tightly in the wind. His bag was next to him, open, more books spilling out. He was so focused on his book that he didn't see the older boys coming at him from the side. Sherlock flinched as they grabbed his shoulders, and threw him back into the fountain. The bad part had to happen before the good part.

The young man came up on his feet, sputtering and soaking wet. The ringleader was holding his bag out over the water, swinging it, threatening to drop it in the water as well. His lackeys stood behind him, laughing as their leader sneered at the man he had just sent head first into the fountain.

"What's the matter, freak? Don't like to swim? He looks like a drowned cat!" The ringleader laughed, and made to drop the bag. "C'mon, Sherlock, you nothing but talk?"

"Give it back." Even then his voice was deep and vicious, anger radiating out from his tall slim form, fists clenched at his sides, dripping wet and shivering.

"Make me." The leader taunted, swinging the bag out towards this younger Sherlock, before pulling it back. "Hah! Too slow."

He swung it again, and this time Young Sherlock grabbed it, and yanked hard. The bully spilled forward, letting go of the bag before he fell in the fountain. Young Sherlock threw his bag over his shoulder, and ran for the far side of the fountain. He didn't run fast enough. The leader caught up to him just as he was jumping clear, throwing him back down in the water. His bag dropped to the ground, not in the water. The bully's friends joined them, and Young Sherlock fought them off, getting every one of them to some degree soaking wet.

Sherlock watched as his younger self got beat in the square, people watching in the distance but not stopping what was happening. The younger version of himself and the men beating him never saw the slim form of the then fifteen year old Violet Hunter come up behind them. His bullies paused their attack, having pulled him from the fountain, his soaking and bruised form huddled at their feet. He wasn't much use then against multiple attackers.

"What ya doing?" Violet asked, popping her gum loudly from behind Sherlock's assailants. They turned to look at her, and even then she was beautiful. Her gorgeous eyes were large in her face, her raven hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail. She wore a very short sundress, her long slim legs bared at mid-thigh all the way down to her strappy sandals. She was pretty, knew it, and that was all she needed to lay them low. They were so distracted they never saw her hands.

Sherlock did, and he grinned as she brought them up, slapping the two stun guns to the chests of the men closest to her. The bright voltage snapped loudly in the air, and the two men she hit with them jerked on their feet, before collapsing to the pavement. The ringleader shouted, and went to grab her arm. He most likely still bore the scar from the contacts, as she planted one of the guns squarely in his face, pulling the trigger. He didn't even make a sound as he jerked hard on his feet, falling once she pulled it back.

"Anyone else want to be a douchebag?" Her sweet voice piped out, and she raised the guns, making them snap menacingly at the two men still standing over Sherlock. They didn't even bother helping their friends to their feet as they put up their hands and walked quickly away. Violet stepped over the nearest bully, her foot colliding solidly with his groin as she did. She ignored his groan of pain, and reached down for Sherlock's bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

"Up you get, Sexy. Before a cop comes along and arrests us instead of them." She stood beside him as Young Sherlock got to his feet, dripping wet, sore, and dirty. "I'm buying lunch, then you're helping me with my chemistry assignment."

"I think this is the most embarrassing moment of my life." Young Sherlock grumbled, but he followed behind her anyway as she lead the way to the street, intending to get them a cab.

"Somehow I don't think so. You've got years left to have that happen again. And I might not be around to save your astoundingly brilliant self from getting a beating." Young Violet poked him in the shoulder, ignoring his glare at the touch.

Grown Sherlock got up, following behind them as they got to the street. The really good part was coming up.

The sleek black car roared to a halt in front of them, and A Slightly Younger Mycroft jumped out the back seat, his long coat flapping in the breeze. He had seen the attack on the CCTV cameras, but had gotten there too late. He was always too late.

"Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to antagonize…." Mycroft's voice trailed off as he saw the young woman standing at his little brother's shoulder, holding his bag, a stun gun in her other hand.

"Excuse me? Did you really just say that fucking shit? What a tool." Violet appeared all sweet and innocent, but the second she got mad, swears and curses tumbled out. She had no filter, either. "How about, 'Are you okay? Do you want me to help you out? Maybe get you an icepack or something?' Who the hell are you, anyway? His dad? That's some effed up concern, buddy."

Slightly Younger Mycroft blinked at the girl in front of him, at a loss for how to process her.

"I'll have you know young lady that I am his brother, and just who are you…." Mycroft tried to speak, but she railroaded him again.

"I'm the fifteen year old chick who just saved your brother. Unlike you, I did something." Violet grabbed Sherlock's arm, and dragged him away. "The name's Violet Hunter."

Young Violet dragged Young Sherlock away, not noticing the astounded look on Sherlock's face. No one had ever stood up for him before, taken a risk and defended him. And no one ever spoke to Mycroft Holmes like that, either. Mycroft stood in shock next to his town car, watching in disbelief as the young girl manhandled his brother into a cab.

Young Sherlock had only just met her the week before, when she snuck into his chemistry class. He had seen immediately that she was new, too young to be here alone, yet she was, and that she had the look of someone who had been on their own for a while. She had sat quietly in his class, just a row below him and to the side. She had noticed him staring at her, and he knew she was aware of his attention. She looked like someone he had once known, someone who was long dead.

He had suspected at the time that she was related to him. Maybe a distant cousin. It wasn't until she saved him at the fountain that day that he had seen his brother in her. Not the evil, the love of violence. But her casual and easy acceptance of violence as a means to an end, that was Sherrinford. And that was Sherlock. But he kept his thoughts to himself, not confirming it until years later.

Grown Sherlock closed his eyes, withdrawing his mind from his palace, and lifting his consciousness back to his body, where he slept in his leather chair. He felt so much better, at peace and ease with his body and mind. He blinked himself awake, eyes focusing on Violet. She was sitting cross legged in John's chair, clicking away at her laptop. Her hair was slightly damp, and she had a mug of coffee next to her elbow on the small table beside the chair. His nose twitched at the smell of caffeine.

He hadn't moved beyond blinking, but she knew he was awake. She reached out without looking, and picked up her coffee, leaning out. He took it from her without a word, glad it was still hot. Cream, two sugars. Perfect.

"Where'd you go this time?" Violet asked him, as she looked up from her laptop.

"Hmm. Trafalgar Square, the fountain." Sherlock didn't need to elaborate. He watched over the coffee mug as she blinked at him. She knew what day he was referring to. She smiled at him, and went back to whatever she was doing.

She started to hum again, and it was always that song by Bach. It was the first song she had heard him play on his violin. He had played it for her that evening, on the day she rescued him from his abusers. He hadn't been able to say thank you, it was beyond him then, but he had tried. So he played for her. And now, eleven years later, she still hummed that same song when she was happy.

* * *

Christmas decorations were everywhere. Doors, windows, lampposts, even the dashboards of cabs. London was responding to the previous month's devastation by pouring on the holiday cheer. It had yet to snow, but the temperatures were falling, and the air had a fierce bite to it that made John think it wouldn't be long.

He was leaving the clinic, a long boring day of endless appointments finally over. He was professional about it, but there were so many times he wished he were elsewhere. Staring at the clock on his office wall wasn't the best way to pay attention to a patient. The only interesting part of his day had been one of his last patients. And interesting wasn't really a good word to describe that appointment. More like awkward, sad, and depressing.

A teenage boy had been battling drug addiction, and his mother had finally managed to drag him in to see a doctor. John grimaced at the unpleasant memory. Mom had been under the assumption that her son was just ill, battling a severe virus or infection. He was ill, but he suffered from addiction. Telling her that her son was an addict, and would benefit most from entering rehab, had been hard. Especially as her son just sat in his chair, staring at the floor, not responding to anything. He had been high even in John's office.

Mom wouldn't listen, right up until John had stood, picked up her unresisting son's arm, and pulled back the sleeve. The needle tracks were faint, but obvious. Her tears had flowed, and her son hadn't responded to her broken heart at all. John had called Donovan at Scotland Yard, and helped Mom wrangle her son into the patrol car Donovan had sent over. John had searched the young man, and flushed every single piece of illegal substance he found on him. He wouldn't be charged with possession, and he was currently being admitted into a facility that could help him.

The air was crisp, nipping at his face as the wind blew. John walked to the corner, waiting on a cab. He felt a stinging wet spot on his face, and looked up. It was snowing. Tiny little flakes were falling, so small they were almost invisible. John smiled at the sight, and didn't care who saw him stick out his tongue, catching a flake as it fell. Christmas was a couple of weeks away, and he thought about stopping for a tree on his way home. Sherlock wasn't one to put up decorations, but he didn't quibble when Mrs. Hudson and John put them up. He could even be persuaded to play on the holidays.

John was about to hail a cab when his mobile chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out, standing at the curb as snow fell harder around him. It was Sherlock.

**Donovan called. Case at Black Park Lake, nurseries just south of the lake on Black Park Road. Murder. Do hurry. –SH**

**On my way. –JW**

John hailed a cab, and he threw himself into the back seat. That was a long drive at this time of day, and he settled back in the seat, watching the snow fall on London.

* * *

Sherlock stood beside the barn, watching the blood freeze on the cold ground. He was on the leeward side of the building, so the snow wasn't obscuring much of the crime scene. The body was just past the open door, as if it had been dragged by a large predator, and dropped in the dirt. It had been a predator, the most vicious on the planet. Man.

The woman no longer resembled a person, just a torn assemblage of mangled limbs and bloody clothing. The smell of entrails and exposed flesh was heavy in the wet air. Her blonde hair helped identify the head, and her gender, but otherwise, it would require an autopsy to determine who she was for certain. Unless you were Sherlock Holmes, of course.

Sergeant Donovan stood inside the barn, watching as Sherlock stared at the corpse, unmoving. Sherlock heard her shift on her feet, trying to hide her impatience. Her demeanor had improved marvelously since Moriarty had kidnapped her the previous month, but old habits die hard. He couldn't tell if she was impatient with him, or if it was due to the rapidly falling temperatures. He cast her a sideways glance, saw her huddled under her heavy coat. The weather, then.

Sergeant Donovan had been temporarily assigned to head up Lestrade's division of Scotland Yard, while that worthy individual recovered from his injuries. He was due to be discharged from the hospital this week, and was facing months yet of physical therapy before he would be cleared for duty. Which meant Sherlock had to suffer through dealing with Donovan, and DI Dimmock.

Sherlock knew that Donovan was losing the battle with her impatience, but he paid her no mind. His attention was fixed on the slain woman's clothing, the footwear she had on, the direction she had been dragged from. His eyes tracked the signs in the dirt, across the concrete floor of the barn, to the opposite doors, which were open, facing the road. Sherlock saw the black cab as it stopped just behind the police cars, and his heart did a funny little jump as John get out. Donovan saw him staring, and turned to see what was so interesting. She rolled her eyes as she saw the doctor, but said nothing.

Sherlock walked around Donovan, towards his doctor as John followed the crime scene tape to the barn. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, he lifted the tape, and let John in, ignoring the glares from a patrol officer guarding the tape line.

"What we got? You said murder?" John asked him, the barn's dark shadows and the failing light making the air take on an ominous note.

"Hmmm. Female victim, just past the other doors over there." Sherlock led the way to the other door, and let John go ahead of him. John had been around enough crimes scenes now that he knew where to step, what to watch out for, how close he could get.

John didn't even pause, unperturbed by the mangled corpse, the blood everywhere. His doctor paid attention to the wounds, the broken bones, the split torso, and the entrails spilling out on the cold ground.

"Female, late thirties, early forties, minimal defensive wounds. Extreme blunt force trauma, lacerations, fatal blood loss from over a dozen potential causes of death. I'd say animal, but there are no paw prints in the dirt, none in the blood. Just boot prints." John was talking out loud, and Sherlock grinned, exceedingly proud of his doctor.

"Spot on John, keep going." Sherlock encouraged his lover, leaning against the open barn door at his back. "I'll let you know when you've caught up."

John tossed him a look, one that was half pleased, and half annoyed. Sherlock just waved him back to the body, crossing his arms over his chest. John went back to the body, and stared down at it.

"The size of the injuries, the wounds, all indicate that it was the same weapon that caused most of this damage. And if I'm not mistaken…" John held out his own hand, hovering over a mark just above the exposed ribcage. "Yeah, hands, too. Much larger than mine. A very big man did this."

"Excellent work, John." Sherlock said, jumping away from the door, coat flapping in the breeze. "Let's go catch us a killer, shall we?"

"You know who did this and we've been standing here in the cold for nearly an hour?" Donovan said, eyes wide. Her voice cracked on the last word, and she glared at the consulting detective.

"Certainly. Had to wait for John, of course. I never waste an opportunity to show off in front of John." Sherlock tossed that comment over his shoulder, heading back through the barn, and he walked off into the falling snow. He didn't see John get red in the face, a huge grin forming on his lips. John took off after Sherlock, leaving Donovan to follow behind them.

The snow was falling faster, sticking to the ground. Small white sheets were forming on the walkways, the paths through the great nursery. Trees barren of leaves rose from the grounds, and snow gathered on branches, making skeletons of the sleeping giants.

The snow was pure white, but for where it mixed with blood, rose red and spreading. The snow was letting them see where the blood was on the dark ground. Sherlock followed the blood path, stepping around the stains, weaving with unerring accuracy towards his target. John was at his heels, and as they walked off into the lowering darkness, John felt at his waistband for his gun. There was an air of menace in the air, the silence generated by the falling snow.

A large glass building loomed from the shadows, and Sherlock headed for it without hesitation. The greenhouse was dark, but for a single light the burned from within.

"Okay, Sherlock. Explain please." John murmured under his breath, chin tucked deep in his collar against the cold.

"You said the same weapon was used for the injuries caused to the victim, did you not?" Sherlock saw John nod, and went back to watching the ground in front of him. "But that makes no sense, given the blunt force trauma, the large and deep lacerations, and the signs of bare hands."

"Oh. Yeah. Huh." John sounded embarrassed, but Sherlock grinned.

"You aren't wrong, John." Sherlock stopped just below the great glass walls of the greenhouse, trying to see past the haze of the glass. "It was the same weapon, wielded by one man."

"I'm lost." John stopped beside him, and they waited for Donovan to catch up.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked John, hands buried in his pockets, breath frosting in the air.

"Um…. A nursery." John offered.

"Yes we are. Did you see the state of her boots?" Sherlock queried, Donovan listening intently.

"Um, no. Distracted by the blood and guts, sorry."

"Look around John. Winter is here, there is nothing green, nothing living. But she had flower petals stuck in the tread of her boots. And her clothes, where not covered by dirt and grime, were stained by green plant matter. Which is why we are here, at the greenhouse, in an otherwise dormant nursery, Christmas mere weeks away."

"Okay, so she was in the greenhouse. " John was following. Trying to. "What does Christmas have to do with anything?"

"Yes, with her killer. Her wounds are consistent with large pruning shears. Blades for the lacerations, the handles for the blunt force trauma, and since he seemed rather pissed off as he killed her, I'm certain he used his hands too." Sherlock leaned down slightly, his eyes twinkling in the fading twilight. Night was coming, and quickly. "And Christmas is why she was here, why her killer was here."

"What?" That was Donovan, finally speaking up.

"Yes, see?" Sherlock pulled out his mobile, showing them the screen. It showed the front entrance of the nursery, and two people standing under the sign. The woman had long blonde hair, and the man at her shoulder was tall, over six feet. The news headline showed '_Christmas Roses and Poinsettias in High Demand, Local Nursery Supplying Flowers for Charity Events in London.'_

"So, live plants, pruning shears, and a woman beaten and slashed to death by a large male assailant, rose petals, blood trail…. facile. Still don't know why I was called, but as I'm here now….." Sherlock motioned for Donovan to approach the doors of the greenhouse. "Might as well see this through, he's in there."

"What?" John asked, backing away from the door as Donovan pulled her weapon. "We've been standing out here chatting, and the killer is in there?"

"Yes we have been, and yes, he's in there. Rather strange he hasn't attempted to run for it, but as he's a big fellow, he may think he can fight his way out of this. Do go get him, Sergeant. I'd like to go home."

Donovan approached the door, saying nothing as John drew his weapon, guarding her back. Technically John wasn't allowed to be carrying, but seeing as all the other police officers were still back at the barn, Sally wasn't going to quibble legalities.

Donovan opened the door, John on her heels as she entered. Warmth spilled out over them, the strong scent of roses permeating the air. She disappeared into the fog that formed as a result of the cold air, John and Sherlock on her heels.

The greenhouse was full of flowers. Reds and whites and sweet yellows from the roses, and the deep blood red of poinsettias in their gold foiled pots. The scents were overwhelming. Sally kept her gun up, heading for that single lamp glowing amid the flowers, as John swept the shadows. Sherlock followed close behind.

"I found him." Sally's voice was soft in the close spaces, muffled by the plants. She sounded strange. Not excited at all.

Sherlock entered the light from the single lamp hanging from the ceiling. It cast a small circle of orange light on the concrete floor, on the figure lying still. Sherlock stared down at the man prone at his feet. He was over six feet tall, easily twice Sherlock's weight, and he was very dead.

Blood covered his arms, his hands, up to his shoulder, soaking his chest, down to his hips. There were no signs of injury on him, his clothes were intact, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, nothing. The blood wasn't his, it was the woman's. A large set of pruning shears was still clutched in his hand, blood caking every inch of the murder weapon. Tiny bits of flesh clung to the blades, and his hands.

His face was bluish and splotchy. His eyes were bloodshot, and his tongue protruded from his mouth. It was deep sick purple color, as were his lips.

John lowered his weapon, and went to lean over the body.

"John, stop." Sherlock warned his doctor. John froze, and looked at Sherlock in apprehension. "Don't touch the body. No one touch anything in here. He was poisoned."

"We need to leave exactly as we entered, touch nothing. Keep your hands away from your faces, don't touch your gloves to bare skin." Sherlock ordered, and the tone of his voice brokered no argument from the officer and his doctor. "Out, now."

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm, and didn't wait for his lover to move on his own, dragging him to the door and out of the greenhouse. John barely had time to protest before Sherlock was examining his gloves, tossing the gun down to the snow. John tried to stop him, but Sherlock wasn't listening, eyes intent on John's gloves. He saw nothing on the surface, nothing that wasn't supposed to be there from normal use. He sighed in relief, then pounced on Donovan.

She tried to tug herself away from him, but he was determined, and ignored her struggles. She gave up, and let him look over her leather gloves. Sherlock saw it, a thin, shiny glaze on the hand she had opened the door with. He grasped her wrist, and dug in his pockets, pulling out a clear plastic bag.

"Did you touch anything? Anything other than the door, and your gun?" Sherlock demanded as he used the plastic bag like a glove, grabbing her glove and peeling it off her hand.

"What? No, nothing." She was flabbergasted, as he bagged her glove and tied off the end.

"Don't touch it. You've got the toxin on your glove. It was on the doorknob." Sherlock eyed her gun, and she glanced at it nervously. He pulled out another bag, and made her drop the weapon in it. "Call whoever you need to, lock this scene down, warn everyone not to touch anything. Make your calls, Sergeant."

Sherlock let go of Sally, and she pulled out her mobile, dialing as she walked away a few feet, eyeing the greenhouse with a trace of fear. John was staring at him in shock, and Sherlock walked back to his doctor, wrapping his arms around John, holding him close.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John whispered in his ear, his doctor holding him tightly.

"Yes." Sherlock buried his cold nose in John's neck, making him jump. "Looks like this case just got more interesting."

* * *

Violet sat in her uncle's chair, her laptop keeping her legs warm. Sherlock had been gone for hours now, and Mrs. Hudson was next door at Mrs. Turner's. Violet grabbed the poker from the hearth, poking at the logs burning merrily away. It was dark, the only light coming from the fire, and the single lamp on in Sherlock's room down the hall. John was with her uncle, and he had texted her just minutes ago, telling her that they were on their way home.

Violet had smiled, oddly touched by John updating her on where they were. As if she were family, and such things were important. The night was very quiet, the falling snow muffling all sounds. She looked at the windows, and saw it was still falling, great white flakes visible in the street lights.

She sighed, determined not to fall asleep in Sherlock's chair. He wouldn't mind much, but having to drag herself back to the couch was too hard at the moment. She'd move when he got home. She went back to work, focused on the lines of code cycling down her screen.

Violet didn't hear it at first. Faint scraping noises from downstairs, like a piece of furniture was moving. Or a door being opened, below her in Mrs. Hudson's flat.

_Mrs. Hudson must be back already. She said she was going to be late, it's kinda early. She must be part ninja, I didn't hear the front door open… I didn't hear it open. Fuck. That's not her._

Violet slowly raised her eyes from laptop screen, staring hard at the stairwell, the black void of it suddenly ominous. She could see nothing. But she knew, like she knew how to breathe, that she wasn't alone anymore. Someone was in the flat, trying their best not to be heard. Violet fought back her fear, and lowered her laptop to the floor. Her heart was racing, blood pounding in her ears. She watched the stairwell, and she thought she saw a slight motion. Furtive, tiny, as if someone had peeked between the railings, trying to see up into the flat.

Violet resisted the urge to scream, to call out. She pulled her mobile out, and without looking, hit the speed dial for Sherlock. She felt the small speakers vibrate in her tight grip as she stared at the person-shaped shadow creep up the stairs, pausing on the landing. She knew the call went through, as she caught the faint sound of her uncle's voice from her mobile's speakers.

Violet sucked in a deep breath, and jumped from the chair, the shadow man moving as she ran for her uncle's room. She barreled past the open kitchen door, screaming as a black clad arm snaked out from the doorway, trying to grab her. A large man careened past her, slamming into the burnt kitchen table. She ran, not stopping as she darted into Sherlock's room, throwing the door shut, locking it behind her. She reached over, and locked the bathroom door too. She brought her mobile to her ear, backing away from the doors. Sherlock was yelling over the open line, having heard her scream.

"Sherlock, someone's here. A man, oh God. He's after me, fuck fuck fuck…" She cried out as the door shook on its hinges, a large body slamming against it from the outside. "Sherlock!"


	38. The Master

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: Violence. Some sexy stuff. Oh, and a very, very bad man makes an appearance. Enjoy!**

**A/N: My villain is a variant of an original Conan Doyle. I hope everyone loves what I've done with him.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

"_**The Master"**_

Violet cried out as he slammed into the door again, the man who had broken into her uncle's flat. Sherlock was calling her name over the open line, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, shaking.

"Violet, we're almost home. Calm down. Where are you?" Sherlock's voice was calming, reassuring, despite the man doing his best to get in the bedroom.

"I'm in your room. He's outside the door, trying to break it down." She whispered past her hand, unable to take her eyes away from the shadow of the man barely visible under the door. "Hurry, please. He's still here."

Violet could hear John in the background, yelling at the cabbie to go faster. Sherlock was still calm, and she struggled to match him, but she couldn't. She was shaking too hard. She cried out as the shadow man started to kick the door, his foot slamming into the wood next to the door handle. The door held, but she knew it wouldn't for long.

"Sherlock, you aren't going to make it in time." Violet gasped out. Fear was rising in her, fear that she hadn't felt since she was a child, on her own. "He's going to kill me."

"Violet! Fight! He gets through that door, you fight!" Sherlock finally shouted, the finality in her voice making his control shatter. She couldn't respond, her voice stolen by panic. She felt removed from her body, as if her soul was preparing to die, pulling away from her physical form.

_Everyone dies alone. I am going to die._

Violet struggled to be calm, to keep from shutting down from panic. She couldn't run, the windows opened too high over the alleyway, and were locked shut against the frigid nights.

The shadow man was kicking the door, over and over. Violet lowered the mobile, and tossed it to the bed. The line was still open, and she could hear Sherlock shouting her name. Violet tore her eyes from the door, and looked around Sherlock's room. His room was always clean, spotlessly organized. She went quickly to the dresser against the wall, and ripped open the top drawer. She growled in frustration; John's gun gone and not where he usually kept it.

She hurriedly looked around, and froze in terror. The shadow man was in the bathroom, his silhouette clearly visible through the glass panes of the door. He was tall, dressed in black, and facing her through the wavy glass of the bathroom door. As if he could see her, see her fear. She gasped, a sob ripping from her, and she held a hand over her mouth, trying to quiet herself.

The shadow man raised his fist, and began punching the door. The glass cracked, and the door shook. This door was far more fragile than the main bedroom door, and it was starting to cave. Glass shattered on his second hit, and Violet knew she was going to die if he got in the room.

_NO. Fuck this, I am not dying. NO!_

Violet's eyes latched on the sword hanging on the wall. It was Sherlock's rapier, from some championship he won first place in when he was a teenager. The glass gave way just as she leapt for the weapon, her hand on the hilt. She pulled it free, the blade hissing as it released from the leather scabbard. Violet lifted the blade, just in time, the shadow man unlocking the door, smashing it open against the nightstand.

He lunged for her, arms outstretched, clearly seeing her as not a threat. Violet swung the blade, the sharp steel singing in the air, and she sliced the hand coming at her. He yelled, and she back pedaled, but not fast enough. His other hand came up, smacking her across the face, throwing her back into a bookshelf. She kept her grip on the blade, and she pushed off the case, swinging again, slashing at his shoulder. She laid him open, blood rushing from the long gash. The shadow man growled a curse at her, and backed up, a hand pressed to the wound. Violet gripped the sword in both hands, the point up and between them.

"Fuck off!" Violet yelled, and she disappeared under the rage that swept up from her soul. She was not a victim. She was Violet Hunter, _Violet Holmes_, and she would not be afraid. Violet lifted the sword, swinging at his face, stepping forward as she did. She missed, but she was past the point of caution. She flew into a fury, swinging the blade again and again, both hands gripping it, the shining steel covered in blood.

Violet felt the blows he landed on her face, her shoulders, but in a distant part of her, a place buried under her fury. He tried repeatedly to grab the sword from her, but she scratched at him with one hand as she kept her grip on the blade. She knew she was screaming, yelling, wordless cries of fury and pain. She was kicking, biting, stabbing and slashing.

When it happened, it was as if it were in a dream. The shadow man had a hand around her throat, squeezing. When the sword pierced his chest, she felt like someone else was holding the hilt, that someone else's hand was pushing the slim blade between his ribs. Time slowed. She saw it all, felt it all, tasted blood and sweat. She saw the blood running down his face, the gashes and cuts across his shoulders and chest. And the wreckage of Sherlock's bedroom, blood everywhere. She felt her own bruises, gashes, the lacerations from accidentally cutting herself with the sword as she madly swung it.

Violet felt his heart beating along the length of the blade, as the tip sank in the pounding muscle. She was close enough to him to see the disbelief in her attacker's eyes as he died. His hand fell from her neck, and she sucked in air, tasting blood on her tongue. He stood, the light dimming from his bloodshot eyes. She pushed harder, and his heart stopped beating.

He was dead on his feet. The shadow man slowly fell back, his weight pulling the blade from his chest. She held the sword, the point to the dead man's throat. Violet was in shock, cold now, her hand shaking, every muscle quivering with the overdose of adrenaline in her system.

She didn't hear the front door of the flat crash open, or the two sets of footsteps race up the stairs. She couldn't hear Sherlock and John screaming her name, running down the hall past the kitchen, into the bedroom. Violet couldn't look away from the dead man at her feet, the sword dripping blood.

"Violet!" Sherlock called to her from far away, over and over.

John and Sherlock were just feet away from her, but she didn't know they were there. All she saw was a man reaching for her, and she snapped, the blade flashing up faster than she could think. She screamed, the sound strangled, her eyes wild, and she fell back against the wall. Violet's legs slowly gave out, and she collapsed to the floor. She kept the sword up, and met Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock had an arm out, restraining John from reaching for her. She couldn't hear anything past the pounding of her heart in her ears. She saw nothing but the brilliant diamond eyes of her uncle. She stared in them, and counted her heart beats. Counted them, because now every one of them was precious. She had almost died, lost her life on this night. Never again would she take air for granted, take for granted the earth beneath her feet, the warmth in a hug.

The sword fell at last from her hand, crashing to the floor. She was shaking, and so cold, so very cold. Violet felt the hot burning acid of tears run from her eyes, down her face. Suddenly she could hear again, and she flinched. She brought her hands up to her ears, and curled in on herself. She buried her face in her knees, curling up as small as she could get.

"No, Sherlock. Slowly. She's in shock, don't scare her." John's voice was like electricity, stinging exposed nerve endings.

"Violet? Sweetheart?" John said, and she heard him settling to the floor a couple of feet away. His voice was gentle, soft, sweet.

Violet heard Sherlock on his mobile, probably calling the police. She was so tired, her muscles quivering. She had started to sweat, her skin clammy and sticking. Her hair was wet along her neck, and she had no strength left to lift her head. She wasn't aware she was sobbing until her shaking torso caused her arms to slip from her knees, nearly falling over.

She raised her head, feeling like it was the hardest thing she had ever done. She stared at the bloody corpse on the floor of her uncle's bedroom, looking like it went through a blender. She blinked, and raised a shaking hand to her face, pushing her hair from her eyes. She paused, gazing at her hand. Her fingers were bloody, her knuckles scrapped, some nails broken. Violet sat back against the wall, and lifted her other hand, seeing the same ruin. She breathed, in and out, and stilled her sobs.

"Violet?" John called to her softly, moving closer. She finally looked to him, the concern on his face so clear, it was painful to see. She sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, and turned back to the body on the floor.

Violet curled her hands to fists, and felt something new. Something she had never really felt before. She had skated through life on bravado, and a joyous carelessness that let her get away with so much. She had always counted on her intellect, her ability to manipulate technology and people to get what she wanted, to do as she pleased. But a small part of her had always wondered what she was capable of, what she would be, in those moments that mattered most. Would she be a coward? Would she cry and beg, or would she fight?

Violet steeled her legs, her back, and pushed up the wall, using it to get back to her feet. Fire was burning in her heart, chasing away the misery and fear, the chaos. She breathed deeply, over and over, eyes trained on the dead man. A powerful sensation was singing out from her soul, and she lifted her chin. Sherlock was evaluating her, and John had gained his feet. They were watching her, wondering what she was doing.

She felt strong, powerful, as if she was a new person. She could do anything. Violet Hunter had survived. She stepped away from the wall, and moved to the body. John had a hand out, as if he expected her to fall. She stood over the corpse, and took another deep breath. Violet looked up, to meet her uncle's eyes. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the body, watching her, calm. He had seen that she was still in one piece, and was waiting to see what she would do next.

"Fucker." She gasped out, kicking at the dead man. Her foot landed solidly on a rib, and she refused to recoil from the body as it moved limply. She turned back to Sherlock, and tried to smile for him.

Violet stepped over the still warm corpse as if it weren't there, and went to him. Sherlock looked slightly surprised, but he opened his arms, and she walked in them. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She didn't cry, just hugged him. He held her tightly, their heights nearly the same. He rested his face in her hair, and they stood together in silence.

She was so tired. Alive, but tired. Relieved and tired. So tired she gave in to the darkness as it swept over her mind.

* * *

Anthea stared at her mobile in disbelief. The alert had come through Scotland Yard. A home invasion at 221B Baker Street, one casualty. She was running from her room before she even finished reading the text.

Anthea ran barefoot down the long hall, to Mycroft's room. She banged her fist on the door, over and over. She heard Mycroft swear, unused to such activity in his house. She would handle his irritation later. The door opened, to reveal the annoyed and surprised face of her boss, the spymaster of MI6.

Mycroft gaped at her, and she thrust her mobile in his hands.

"No idea on who the casualty is, sir. Scotland Yard is en route now." She gasped out, and she watched as his face paled, turned to frozen, frigid granite.

"Get the car, we're leaving for Baker Street now." Mycroft ordered, and she snatched her mobile back, running for her room, getting her shoes. She called for the ever ready car as she slipped back into her heels, grabbing her coat. She met Mycroft in the hall, both of them heading for the stairs.

They both ran down the stairs, out the recently repaired front foyer of his house, and to the waiting black Jaguar at the curb. Mycroft had his mobile out, and she knew he was dialing his brother.

* * *

Sherlock felt his mobile go off in his pocket, the vibration easily ignored. The young woman in his arms took precedence over whoever was calling him. Sherlock met John's worried eyes over his niece's shoulder, the doctor a few feet away. Violet was quiet, her arms tight around his neck. She wasn't crying, but she was very still. Too still.

John stepped over the dead invader, not minding the blood on the floor. It was a night for blood. John came to them, and he put a gentle hand on Violet's back. She didn't react, not at all. John rubbed his hand up and down, and Sherlock pulled back slightly, trying to see her face. Her eyes were shut, face pale. She had scrapes and bruises forming, a cut lip and the clear imprint of a hand on her neck. And she was unconscious.

"John, she's passed out." Sherlock swiftly bent down, and swooped an arm under her knees, keeping one around her shoulders. He picked her up easily, her weight nothing. Sherlock turned and strode from his room, carrying her out to the front room. John followed behind him, turning on the lights as he went.

Sherlock took her to the couch, and lowered her gently, her head on the armrest farthest from the door.

"John, secure the flats, please. The front door was locked when we came in, check Mrs. Hudson's flat, the back entrance." Sherlock asked his lover, and John nodded, pulling his gun from his waistband, clicking off the safety. He moved from the flat without a word, the weapon up, disappearing down the stairs.

Violet was pale, so limp she made him afraid. Sherlock throttled back his rage at the damage done to his niece. She was bruised and bleeding and miraculous. She had saved herself. She had fought, and won. He knelt at her side, running his fingers through her raven black hair, so much like his. Hers was wavy instead of curly, and far more tamable. She had it cut to just above her shoulders, so it swung freely every time she turned her head. So soft, and he couldn't stop himself from playing with it. A part of him realized he was reassuring himself that she was alive, that she was still here. That while he hadn't made it in time, she had survived until he came for her.

Sherlock heard the sounds of sirens approaching the flat, the police and the ambulances coming. Late as usual. Sherlock didn't move from his spot by her head, resting beside the couch on his knees. John came back up the stairs, and paused briefly in the doorway before heading up to the small room and the short hallway upstairs. That space was cleared quickly, and John ran back down the stairs, tucking his gun back under his jumper.

Sherlock dimly heard John usher the police into the flat, down the hall to their bedroom. Sherlock heard the exclamations of surprise from the officers, the swearing. John was talking, his voice distant as he explained what had happened, what they knew. He ignored the police officers who were trying to get his attention. He refused to pull his attention from his niece's face. She was still unconscious, and Sherlock was getting worried.

"John?" Sherlock called softly, but his doctor heard him. John came back out to the front as swiftly as he would have liked, straight to his side. "She hasn't woken up yet."

"Sherlock, let me see her. Budge over." John told him, gently pushing him back from his niece. John's capable and skilled hands raced over her face, her head, examined her neck. John found the cuts and slashes on her arms and legs from the sword, the bruised knuckles from hitting her assailant. Her neck was swiftly bruising, the imprints of the invader's fingerprints clear on her lovely skin.

"Nothing broken, nothing too serious. May need some stitches. I don't see any signs of internal bleeding, nor of a concussion. She's remarkably intact for what she just went through. It's just shock and stress, Sherlock. Cover her up, let the medics have a look at her. They're coming in now." John told him, and Sherlock felt some of his tension ease. John was never wrong, not when it came to this sort of thing.

Sherlock moved back, and sat on the other end of the coffee table, as far as he was willing to go. The paramedics came in, and Sherlock let John explain what had happened. He had yet to look away from her still form on the couch. They looked at him in askance, but he ignored them completely.

Sherlock felt the atmosphere in the room change. Someone was here, who hadn't been here in over a month. Sherlock finally lifted his eyes from his niece, to see his elder brother standing in his doorway. Mycroft was pale, and out of breath. Sherlock met his eyes, and thought he saw a glimmer of guilt, of worry in his brother's expression. Panic. Sherlock looked back to Violet, still out on the couch cushions. He heard Mycroft gasp softly as he saw the unconscious Holmes scion, and he stepped all the way into the room. He walked to Sherlock, but he ignored him in favor of staring at Violet. Sherlock smelled the flowery scent of Anthea's perfume, and she came in as well, moving to the fireplace, out of the way.

"Sherlock, what happened?" Mycroft demanded. Sherlock didn't answer, his jaw tightening in anger. His brother only cared when something messy happened, something inconvenient. John saw his face, and went to Mycroft, pulling the MI6 man away, to the fireplace. He could hear John telling Mycroft and Anthea what had happened. Mycroft would be able to tell most of it from just observing the flat. John led him down the hall to their bedroom, and Sherlock grimaced as he heard Mycroft take control of the Scotland Yard officers.

One of the paramedics reached for Violet's neck, and the scream that came from her in response was bloodcurdling. Violet shot up from the couch, her amethyst eyes bright and wild. She threw herself on the back of the couch, her shoulders against the wall, one hand out, as if holding off a monster. Everyone came running, and all the people pressing in on her, talking to her all at once was overwhelming. Strangers reached for her, and she lashed out, fist colliding sharply with one of the police officers who tried to grab her wrists. They reached for her again, and Sherlock snapped.

"ENOUGH!" Sherlock shouted, pushing people out of his way. An officer fell to the floor, but the others scrambled out of his way. Violet saw him, and jumped. Sherlock caught her, wrapping his hysterical niece in his arms. He strode to the fireplace, and sat them both in his chair. She curled up on his chest, and sobbed. She had been as strong as she could up until this point, but even he was feeling the strain of so many strangers in his home, the scent of blood and death heavy in the air.

Sherlock held her, glaring daggers at those who tried to venture too close. His entire attitude promised violence to anyone who thought to lay a hand on her until he gave leave. He glared back at the officer who he had shoved to the floor, daring the imbecile to say anything, anything at all.

John moved to the fireplace as well, standing beside his chair, facing the room. For once Mycroft made himself useful, and began directing people's attention away from the young woman in his brother's arms, and towards collecting evidence. He kicked the paramedics out, as they obviously weren't needed with a doctor living on site.

Sherlock directed a meaningful glance at John, and flicked his eyes over Violet's laptop, where it rested beside his armchair. She must have been working in his chair when the intruder attacked. John bent down, as if he were speaking to Sherlock, and snatched her laptop up from the floor, holding it behind his back. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, and he saw Violet's mobile held discreetly in his brother's hand. No matter how he may feel about her parentage, Mycroft was not willing to discuss the very illegal software on his niece's electronic equipment with the police.

Sherlock sat in that chair, Violet in his lap, as the coroner finally arrived. The dead man was finally cleared and released to be removed from the flat. The police wanted to take evidence from Violet's clothing, her hands, but Sherlock's face kept them at bay. Sherlock's attitude of barely restrained violence clearly communicated the futility of trying to talk to Violet. They were merely there because Sherlock didn't want to bother removing a body from his flat himself. Sherlock, Mycroft, and John all knew what had happened.

Violet shuddered as the body was wheeled out of the bedroom. Sherlock saw his sword clutched in the hand of a police officer, wrapped up in a plastic evidence bag. Sherlock tried to repress his dismay, but Mycroft saw it, and correctly guessed why. He went to the officer, and spoke to him quietly. The officer tried to resist, but Mycroft held firm, and the officer handed it over to his brother before walking out of the flat. Mycroft gently put his sword on the burnt out table, the blade still shining, even covered in blood and plastic.

Blessed silence finally descended in the flat. Mrs. Hudson peeked in the room, the police finally allowing her to come up. She must have come back home sometime during the middle of all the chaos.

She looked very worried, her hands over her mouth. She tried to approach Sherlock and Violet, but John intercepted her, guiding her into the kitchen instead. Mycroft and Anthea were in his bedroom, most likely looking for clues the police hadn't found. Which would be a lot.

Sherlock adjusted his hold on Violet, glancing down at her. She had kept her face pressed to his chest the entire time, not moving or looking up. She hadn't spoken a single word, not since the curse she'd thrown at the corpse. Nothing. Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair, soothing himself and her as best he could. She shifted, turning in to his touch, her body relaxing. He kept petting her hair, and he noticed when she started to doze off. She was relaxed enough to sleep, and he let her. He rested his head on hers, and sighed. This family business was so hard. But the emotional feedback he was getting was just as addicting as what he got from John, and he didn't mind the effort.

Sherlock was dimly aware of Mycroft staring him and the girl he held. He seemed to make up his mind, and came in the room, sitting in John's chair. Mycroft observed his brother tending to their niece, an unreadable look on his face.

"Is she asleep?" Mycroft asked, his brows lowered, voice as quiet as he could get it.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, unwilling to talk.

"You can't hold her forever, she is covered in blood. So are you, by the way."

"Excellent deductions, Mycroft. Brilliantly obvious." Sherlock snapped.

"Boys, not now." John scolded. He left the kitchen, and came over to Sherlock. "She needs to get cleaned up. Let me have a look at her."

"But…." Sherlock loathed to let her go. She was safe with him.

"She'll be fine with me." John murmured, putting a hand on his lover's shoulder, squeezing. Sherlock sighed loudly, and bent his head to Violet's ear.

"Violet." He whispered. No response. She was relaxed, breathing slow and deep. She was very much asleep.

"Is she sleeping?" Anthea asked from the doorway, her green eyes bright and concerned.

Violet stirred, lifting her head, her hair tickling Sherlock's nose. Sherlock hid a grin in the raven locks. She hadn't heard him, but she had heard the cultured tones of Mycroft's personal aide. Sherlock saw where her interest went. Violet blinked at all the people staring at her, before turning, looking her uncle in the face. The look of mild chagrin and appreciation she gave him made Sherlock's heart take a tiny tumble.

"Oh, this is embarrassing." She grumbled. "I haven't been held in a man's lap since that disastrous Christmas when I was five. I puked all over creepy fake Santa's shiny black boots. Oh, and when I made out with John last month, but that doesn't count."

Violet put her hand on his chest, and pushed up, wavering before finding her balance. He held a hand to her shoulder, nervous she might topple off his leg.

"Where'd everyone go?" She asked, hand pushing her hair back out of her eyes. "And why do I remember punching a cop?"

"Sherlock scared them all out. You feeling up to letting me check you over?" John asked her. "And yes, you punched a cop."

"First time for everything, I suppose." Violet put her hand out, letting John help her to her feet. "A man checking me over, not the punching a cop thing. I've done that before."

"I want to hear that story for certain. In the bathroom, let's go." John roped an arm around her waist, and helped her walk. She rubbed a hand through Sherlock's wild curls before stepping away, her odd way of saying thank you.

"Well, I was in New York City, and this really cute chick was getting a parking ticket…" Violet's voice faded out as John led her down the hall, Sherlock watching the whole way.

Sherlock felt a tension ease in him when he heard John laugh in response to what she was saying. Anthea wandered after them, and Sherlock's lips twitched when he saw Violet snake an arm out from the bathroom, grabbing Anthea's wrist and tugging her in too. The hallway door shut, and Sherlock tore his gaze away.

Sherlock got up so quickly he made Mycroft jump. He threw off his coat, his scarf, realizing as he did that he had been wearing them the whole night. Sherlock strode from his flat, down the stairs, and through his landlady's door. He went to the kitchen entrance, the one that opened to the rear alley.

The door was shut now, police tape over the handle, and an evidence seal over where the deadbolt used to be. The invader had broken the locking mechanism completely, not bothering trying to pick the lock, or forcing the bolt. Instead, the entire deadbolt, handle, all of it was broken. Subtlety hadn't been important. The fervor and violence of his actions gave no other impression other than murder. This man had come with the intent to kill someone. The question was who had he come to kill?

Nothing was disturbed in Mrs. Hudson's flat. The invader had come to this back door specifically, and once in, moved with purpose to the front foyer, the stairs. As if he knew where he was going. Someone told him where to go? How the building was set up? It was the most likely scenario.

Sherlock was staring at a muddy footprint on Mrs. Hudson's otherwise spotless floor, surprised that Scotland Yard hadn't destroyed all the evidence. It was a clean tread mark, a workman's boot print. He had been staring at boot prints all day long….

Sherlock stilled, and dove for his mind palace; to the room he kept his recent cases. He searched for the images of the boot prints that had littered the grounds of the nursery he had been at earlier in the day. He opened his eyes back to the kitchen, and overlaid the mental picture of several boot treads from the nursery over the boot mark on the tile. He dismissed several before finding a match. Same size, same type of wearing on the inside of the heel, same stride. The man who had tried to kill Violet had been at his earlier crime scene. Sherlock may have found his killer already.

He felt a vague sense of unease. That was too easy. Most would assume that the killer had seen Sherlock at the nursery, recognized him, and gone ahead to his flat (hard to find someone in London these days who didn't know where he lived), and lain in wait for him to get back, intending to kill him so he couldn't solve the case. If it was anyone other than him working this case, they might just wash their hands of the whole ordeal, calling it done, as the man was dead now.

Sherlock ignored the shadow standing in the kitchen doorway. Mycroft saw what he did, reading the killer's intent to commit murder as easily as Sherlock. The truest mystery to solve was who had been the target. Violet? Why her? She hadn't been with him at the crime scene, she had stayed home. And if anyone with half a brain knew the floor plan of his flat well enough to break in the back door, and go unerringly through Mrs. Hudson's inefficiently laid out flat, up the stairs…. Then they would be smart enough to notice that he and John were not home yet.

So what did his new case have to do with his niece?

"Violet was the target." Sherlock murmured quietly, not really speaking to his brother, but needing to voice the words. The room was dark, the only light from the window over the sink. The snow was still falling, gathering in the corners of the window, frosting in the cold temperatures.

"Are you certain?" Mycroft asked, unmoving from his spot in the doorway.

"Yes, though I don't know why." Sherlock stepped over the print. "The man who attacked Violet was at the crime scene I was at earlier this evening. Double murder, of sorts. First victim brutally murdered by her business partner, who was then poisoned by an as yet unknown substance by an unknown person. Whether the man Violet killed is the killer of my first murderer is now the newest mystery. And why he would chose to kill her, if he was, and not myself and John. If we were the targets, all he had to do was wait another ten minutes for us to get home. She had nothing to do with the case."

"And he was very determined to kill her." Sherlock said softly. "She did him serious damage with my sword, and yet he kept coming at her. Most people, even killers, would have fled after the first few slashes. She wasn't an easy target. She fought back."

"The dead man was at my crime scene, may have contributed to the murder of a nursery owner, then killed the first murderer, and then, while John and I were still at the crime scene, raced back here, and tried to kill my niece before we got home." Sherlock finally met his brother's eyes, diamond bright to deep blue. Sherlock saw the thoughts, the repressed emotions swirling in his mind, and tried to see what his brother was thinking. Mycroft was doing his best not to show his emotional state. Which in itself was a clue. He wouldn't be trying so hard if he was not upset.

"Why does a man break into a person's flat? Burglary, rape, murder, lesser reasons that don't bear mentioning. The big three reasons are what concern me most. If it was burglary, why not steal Mrs. Hudson's silver? She leaves it out for any passing thief to take." Sherlock mused, waving a hand to the nearby silver vase on a counter. He was still talking mostly to himself. Mycroft was present, and he would be a quick substitute for John while the doctor was busy. "Rape? Rapists are cowards. Once he knew she was on the phone calling for help, once she barricaded herself in my bedroom, the second she fought back, he should have been running. Instead, he kept attacking. So, what does that leave? Murder."

"She isn't safe." Sherlock told his brother, and walked past him, leaving Mycroft to stare at the tread mark on the floor. "Someone sent that man here to kill her, someone who doesn't want me find out what happened at that nursery. It's possible her death was meant to be a warning."

"This is all conjecture, of course, but how often am I wrong?" Sherlock's voice faded out as he left his brother alone in the dark, cold kitchen.

Mycroft sighed, and looked out the window. The snow had stopped, the street covered in a blanket of pure white, as far as he could see.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want me to stitch that up?" John asked Violet, as she rolled her eyes at him, his hands very close to being in no-man's-land on her upper thigh. She had a long shallow gash on her leg, but it wasn't bleeding badly.

"Just leave some of those Band-Aid type butterfly thingies and I'll take care of it after my shower. Which is my not so subtle way of saying, 'thank you, love you bunches, but I'm about to get naked, no man has ever seen that, please leave.'" Violet quipped at him, her attitude clearly recovering quickly after her ordeal. Violet leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek, before making shooing motions towards the door. "I'm sure Anthea can help me if I need it."

Violet cast a perfectly innocent look at the very pretty MI6 operative, who smiled at her. Violet couldn't decipher what that smile meant, but she hadn't argued the point. John sighed, grabbed his medical kit, and stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

"You aren't very subtle, are you?" Anthea asked her, and she reached out to help Violet shrug out of her blouse. Violet moaned in despair at the state of the pretty blue silk top, and the fact it was so not possible to get blood out of silk.

"Nope." Violet smiled at her, unsnapping her bra, letting it fall to the floor. "Subtlety is a waste of time and effort."

Anthea didn't even blink at the half naked girl, just tossed the shirt on the counter beside the sink. Violet was attempting to pull off her very tight jeans, and Anthea made her sit on the toilet, and she tugged one leg off at a time for her. Violet bit her lip in pain as the fabric scraped across a cut, and Anthea went quickly, so as not to prolong the experience.

The jeans came off, and Violet sighed loudly in relief, jumping up and out of them, very smoothly kicking off her underwear at the same time. Violet had no trouble being completely naked in front of Anthea. She turned on the water, silently blessing her uncle for having a ridiculously large water heater. Violet hopped in the shower, and grabbed the curtain.

"I'd ask you to join me, but I don't want to presume your relationship with Mycroft is less than what it might be." Violet told the MI6 operative, who had a delightfully surprised and pleased look on her face. "I'm not pressuring, just making it obvious I like you. So there's no confusion."

"Mycroft is very much involved with someone who isn't me." Anthea told her calmly. "But considering what you've just been through, is this wise?"

Violet got all fuzzy and happy in her stomach, before she blinked, a smile gracing her mouth.

"Wise? Hell no. But I thought you were sexy as hell from the first moment I saw you." Violet told Anthea, but she knew that the other woman was right. "But seeing as how there's my entire family out in the front room, not to mention your boss, all waiting to know what happened, putting the moves on you in the shower probably isn't smart."

"Hhmm. I'd have to agree." Anthea told her, but before Violet could have her feelings get hurt, she stepped very close, steam rising between them from the hot water. "But after you tell them what happened? No one said I had to go home."

Violet felt every brain cell in her head die at the exact same instant, the very moment Anthea leaned in, and lightly brushed her lips to hers. Soft and sweet and so hot Violet gasped for air. Anthea held the almost non-kiss for a heartbeat before pulling away. Her eyes were a green so vivid that Violet couldn't see anything but them.

"I'll get you some clothes. Take your shower." Anthea whispered, and she pulled the shower curtain closed for Violet. She nearly had to slap herself in order to move under the spray, reach for the soap.

"Best and worst night ever." Violet whispered to herself as she heard Anthea leave the bathroom.

* * *

John was thinking hard as he helped Mrs. Hudson clean up the blood from the floor in his bedroom. The bathroom door was still relatively intact, and could shut. The glass panel closest to the door handle was shattered, but the door still provided enough privacy for Violet to take a shower.

John had seen Anthea step out a few minutes ago, and she was coming back down the hall, holding an armful of clothing. She must have gone for some clothing for Violet. John had no idea where Sherlock and Mycroft were, but he figured they were still here somewhere. Mycroft at least, as Anthea was still here. John had noticed a very particular type of tension in Violet, and her pulling Anthea into the bathroom with them had been a surprise.

John wasn't biased against Violet's preference for the female sex. His own sister was a lesbian, and it had never bothered him. Hell, he was currently in a very intense and delightfully sexual relationship with a man, so he had no issues with anyone's choice of partners. John felt embarrassed when he realized what was bothering him. He had always seen Anthea as an extension of Mycroft, and never as her own person. He had noticed she was beautiful, and he had felt a mild attraction to her once upon a time, but he had never thought of her as a separate person. Mycroft's shadow, and nothing else.

Anthea slipped back into the bathroom, and John could hear her speak softly to Violet. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but Violet giggled, and he fought off the very big grin that threatened to break his face. If he was surprised, he wondered what Mycroft's reaction might be to the fact his niece was putting some serious moves on his personal assistant.

John felt his worry wash away with the blood on the floor. Violet would be okay. She might be repressing, but he had no doubt that she was resilient enough to handle what had happened here tonight. She was a Holmes through and through. He saw that more every day.

Mrs. Hudson wiped up the last of the blood with the mop, and John carried the bucket out of the room for her. He'd gotten up all the glass, and there was little evidence of what had happened here. Just the broken glass panel in the bathroom door and the boot prints on the bedroom door. John was surprised, and glad, that the old door had withstood that much damage without breaking.

Sherlock was cleaning his sword, sitting at the burned out table as if it were fine. He was wiping away the sticky blood, vinegar and warm water making John's nose twitch. He had never seen Sherlock pay attention to the sword, never seen him take it down. He knew it was from a championship he'd won back when he was a teenager. The sword had been the prize, and John figured Sherlock had to be good, as he got first place.

Sherlock stood, and did some sort of fancy move with the blade that John was sure had name but he couldn't remember. His entire being was absorbed by the absolutely hot and incredibly delicious Sherlock Holmes wielding a sword like he'd been born with one in his hand. John bit his tongue, and dumped the bloody water down the drain. Sherlock was eyeing the blade, paying attention to the whole length. John figured he was looking for nicks or bends in the metal.

"Excellent craftsmanship, John. Didn't suffer one bit from its use." Sherlock murmured without taking his eyes away.

"Not a very good sword if it didn't work as intended." John told him, putting the bucket down and walking over to Sherlock. "I'm glad it was in there, she would have been in trouble if it wasn't."

"Certainly." Sherlock agreed quietly, putting the sword down, letting his doctor in under his arm, flush to his shoulder. They both looked up as the bathroom door opened. Mrs. Hudson pounced as soon as she saw Violet, Anthea right behind her. Sherlock met John's eyes briefly, and John saw the same mirth in his eyes at Violet's current interest. Mycroft would indeed have trouble with this one. Violet bore up well under Mrs. Hudson's hugs and kisses, far better than Sherlock would have.

"Is it too much to ask for me to go to bed? I'm assuming with the total IQ accumulated in the flat that everyone here has a good idea what happened?" Violet was whining, sounding exactly like Sherlock. Anthea was standing at her shoulder, texting. She put her mobile away just as Mycroft came in the flat. Violet was glaring at them, daring any of them to badger her with questions.

No one said anything, and Violet sighed loudly in relief. John's eyes nearly fell on the floor when she grabbed Anthea's hand, and walked to the stairs, right past Mycroft.

"Good night!" Violet called out as she and Anthea climbed the stairs. Anthea paused briefly, and looked over her shoulder at Mycroft.

"The car is waiting for you, sir. Goodnight." Anthea smiled, and followed Violet up the stairs and out of sight.

John pressed his face to Sherlock's shoulder at the utter and complete dumbfounded look on Mycroft's face. The MI6 man just stared up the now empty staircase, coat in one hand, face blank. He blinked, and tore his eyes away. He smiled tightly at the room in general, before walking out of the flat, down the stairs. John was torn between laughing and flinching as Mycroft slammed the front door on his way out.

* * *

Mycroft never saw the three shadows on the far corner of Baker Street. They stood watching, waiting until the black Jaguar of the spymaster drove away. They peeled away one by one from the larger shadow of the building, disappearing down the unlit street.

* * *

Mycroft was in a foul mood. He was glad the rear of the car was dark; he didn't fancy having his driver knowing that his employer was anything but his usual icy self.

He had been terrified when Sherlock hadn't answered his phone. The only information he had gotten from Anthea was that someone was dead after a home invasion at Baker Street. The slim chance it could have been his brother who was dead had made him run from the car as soon as it had stopped outside his brother's flat.

Seeing that it was Violet who was hurt, and the invader dead, had done things to Mycroft that he hadn't expected. Sherlock was alive, and unscathed, whereas his niece had nearly lost her life fighting off the intruder. Her wounds and the state of her clothing had told him just how close she had come to dying. Seeing the dead man in Sherlock's bedroom had opened up a nasty, sick, sinking sensation in his gut, one he equated to dread. He had felt it so strongly only three times before, when he thought he was watching Anthea die, and when DI Lestrade was fighting for his life after being shot. The third was a memory so dark he hadn't the courage to remember it, not on this silent night.

Mycroft was lost, navigating in waters he did not know. He could not see the far shore. Violet was the daughter of the man he loved, and killed. Because he was a monster, the purest incarnation of evil Mycroft had ever known. His daughter, though not him, carried his blood. Mycroft's blood, Sherlock's blood. The potential for madness was in them all. He did not begrudge her saving her own life. She had done what was necessary to live. But the manner in which she had…

Mycroft flashed back to a hot summer day long ago, the woman dead on the dry barren earth, blood making mud at his brother's feet. Sherrinford holding the knife. His eyes. Mycroft would never forget those eyes. As unique and lovely as his daughter's.

Mycroft wiped as hand across his face, banishing the memory of his dead brother. She was not her father. She was annoying, and precocious, and had no concept of legality (which he had taken advantage of numerous times), but she was not evil.

Mycroft had no idea of what to make of Anthea's decision to stay with Violet. He hadn't gotten even the slightest hint from her that she had romantic interest in his niece. But then, he never thought of her having an interest outside of the work, and him…..

"Home, sir?" His driver asked him, driving through the nearly empty streets of London. The city was sleeping peacefully under its blanket of white.

"Yes…Actually, no." Mycroft changed his mind. There was somewhere he wanted to be. Needed to be. "Take me to St Bart's."

"Yes, sir." His driver changed course, taking Mycroft to the hospital, where certain DI was recovering.

* * *

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was doing his best to sleep. He really was trying. He did his utmost to be a good patient, not giving the nurses or doctors any trouble. He suppressed his impatience, bit back his complaints, and followed directions. And he was doing it all so that a certain government man wouldn't worry. So he could leave this wretched place, the sooner the better.

Greg tried to get comfortable past the pain. His side and lower abdomen and back hurt like hell. He was taking medication for the pain, but he wasn't taking as much as the doctors were offering. He was months away from recovering. Months of physical therapy and pain and frustration. Not to mention he might get invalided out of Scotland Yard, if he didn't recover enough to get back out on the streets. He wasn't meant for a desk job, his heart wasn't in it. He was in that perfect place of being the boss, but still being able to take the cases he wanted.

He was lucky, he knew that. He nearly died on the roof of the hospital he was in. That bomb had been minutes from going off, killing everyone, himself included. He knew when he charged off of that fire escape onto the roof that he might die. He never even felt the bullet as it ripped through his body. He hadn't stopped, killing two of the guards before disarming the bomb. He remembered turning it off. That was it. After the bomb was disarmed, he remembered nothing.

All he could recall was a great grey expanse, and whispers that came to him from the nothingness. Whispers from people he knew, that called to him, asking him to stay. It was so clear. They had told him that he had died on the table. The doctors had managed to get his body back alive, but Greg had a horrible, terrifying thought stuck in his mind. He was certain that while his body may have lived, his soul had left it. He had been dead, and willing to stay dead. Until he heard a voice that made him fight to live.

"Gregory?" His eyes flew open in surprise, hearing the voice he had just been thinking of. He gasped, wrapping an arm around his stomach. The pain was sickening, and he breathed through it as best he could.

The small light beside his bed turned ton, and he saw the patrician features of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft was eyeing him, seeing his struggle and knowing instantly he was in pain.

"Why aren't you taking your medication?" he asked, settling in the chair he always sat in, to his right.

"Don't like the way it makes me feel." Greg gasped out, breathing slow, relaxing as the pain faded. He smiled wryly at the exasperation on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft never bothered anymore to hide his feelings, not when it was just the two of them. Greg saw the tired, stressed plans of his face, the small lines beside his eyes. Mycroft wasn't looking at him, eyes fixed at some distant point, fingers idly picking at the arm of his chair. He only ever fidgeted when he was dealing with something emotional.

"What happened?" Greg asked him. He rarely came this late.

"Someone broke into Baker Street, attacked Violet." Mycroft told him, eyes still far off and vague. "She killed him."

"What? Oh God, is she alright? Where were the guys at?" Greg tried to sit up, but he groaned in pain instead, putting both arms down and holding himself carefully. Mycroft was standing over him, and Greg blinked back the tears that came unwanted to his eyes. He didn't want to cry in front of this man. Not Mycroft.

Long, cool fingers brushed over his cheek, a thumb wiping away a stray tear. Greg gave up, and turned his face into Mycroft's palm. He breathed through the pain, the gentle pressure from Mycroft's hand an anchor for him.

"Violet has some superficial injuries. Sherlock and Dr Watson were at a crime scene. She killed the intruder with my brother's sword." Greg thought he misheard that last part, but Mycroft wasn't one to make jokes like that. "She will be fine."

"Good." Greg whispered. He tried talking some more, but couldn't.

"Perhaps you should stay in the hospital, Gregory." Mycroft murmured to him, his thumb still gently rubbing his cheek. "If you go home to recuperate, you'll most likely overdo things, and end up back here."

"I want out of here. I'm going insane." Greg growled softly. "I'm not used to doing nothing. I'm not built to be idle."

"So overdoing it will be your solution to restlessness?" Mycroft queried, and Greg scowled at him. Man could be annoying sometimes, he really could. "In my considered opinion, you going home to your flat is a very stupid idea."

Mycroft was serenely calm at the narrowed eyed glare Greg tossed him. He wasn't staying in this wretched place any longer than he had to.

"The solution is simple, really." Mycroft got a small, wicked smile on his face. "You will come home with me."

* * *

The air was so cold, so dry, that the blood froze before it even finished falling. Small droplets skipped across the snow, settling in a rain of deep crimson, brilliant over the pure white snowflakes. The trees were silent witness to the brutal death under their branches. The wind was dead, as dead as the rapidly cooling body that crumpled to the ground. Snow fluttered up from the ground at the impact, dusting the black clothing of the useless fool now dead at his feet. A fool who was not alone under the trees. Another body was farther under the dead branches, and they would keep each other company until some lucky soul found them in the morning.

"Sir?" Asked the timid voice of his servant, sniveling from his knees behind him. The third fool had been spared, and his groveling made it clear how very thankful he was.

"Are you interrupting me?" The Master Chemist demanded, shifting on his feet in the cold snow. The knife he held in his hand was steaming in the cold air, blood freezing as it fell from the edge.

"I…. forgive me, Master. Holmes the elder has left Baker Street. He has not placed additional protection on his brother's residence." His servant planted his face in the snow as his master turned, a snow white handkerchief out, wiping away the blood on the blade. The blood stained the pristine fabric, and he tossed it aside.

"Good." The Master stared out across Hyde Park, the trees and lawns covered by a glittering blanket of snow and ice. It would not last long, this lovely and pure expanse. Soon the sun would rise, and melt it all away. "Then we shall try again. But next time, my dear Peter, perhaps you will send better men? Ones who don't partake of my product?"

Peter flinched with his entire body, knowing better than to raise his head. His master would give him leave to rise. Until then, he would gladly freeze to death on his knees.

"Yes, Master. Forgive me." Peter whimpered, seeing his master's boots out of the corner of his eye. "The next ones will follow directions."

"And?" His master whispered, bending over him, the knife tracing its cold path along the back of his neck.

"They will be clean, and follow directions." Peter gasped out. "They will not fail."

Peter jerked as the blade was lifted away, and his master's boots disappeared from view. He stayed where he was, waiting.

"Come, Peter. The night grows colder." His master's voice drifted through the darkness. Peter leapt to his feet, dashing after the swiftly disappearing shadow of John Woodley, The Master Chemist of London.

He spared no further thought for the dead man under the trees. He and his partner had failed in their mission, and Sherlock Holmes was on the case. Holmes had his life, and his niece. Both things the Master wanted, too.


	39. Chemistry Lessons

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: OMG the feels. Things are about to get volatile. And messy.**

**And because I love you all, I decided to introduce my other bad guy in this chapter. Poor Sherlock! **

**Read, enjoy, review!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

"_**Chemistry Lessons"**_

"What do you mean, he's going to be there?" Her fiancé asked. The annoyance in his voice was clear despite his face being buried in his pillow.

"It's his case, he does his work at my lab. Of course he's there." Molly told Tom as she got dressed in the dark. She had gotten a text from Sherlock just a few minutes prior, telling her he had some work for her, and that he would be there soon. 'There' being the pathology lab at St Bart's where she worked, and Tom seemed to be having trouble grasping that. It was five in the morning, so she could understand. She wasn't due to get up for another hour, and he slept until ten most mornings.

"But why does _he have to be there?" _Tom whined, lifting his face to glare at her. She sighed in exasperation, unsure of what was bothering him so much about Sherlock. She wasn't dating him, after all. She was engaged now. She thought she was, at least. Tom hadn't been acting much like a fiancé since she had been kidnapped the month before. He was reserved, remote, with occasional bursts of anger. Like now.

"What's wrong, Tom?" Molly asked, tying her shoe laces. She grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door, and waited for his answer.

"You go running whenever he summons you, and he isn't even your boss. Man doesn't even work for the hospital, yet he dictates your time!" Tom snapped, rolling over, tossing the blanket past his ears, ending the conversation.

"But…" She tried to talk, but he sat up, throwing the blankets off.

"Go on then! Get out, go see your detective!" Tom got out of bed, heading for the bathroom, and he slammed the door shut behind him.

Molly just stared at the door, unsure of what exactly she had done wrong. This is what she did. She went to work, and when she could, she helped Sherlock. Her regular work for the hospital and Scotland Yard never suffered for it, and she helped solve crimes with the world's best detective. The world's only consulting detective.

Molly bit her lip, hard. She didn't know where this animosity was coming from. She had told him while they were first dating all about Sherlock, and the work she did with him. And then once Sherlock came home, she had told Tom all about the scheme to convince the world that Sherlock was dead in order to defeat Moriarty. She hadn't told him how Sherlock faked his death, just the why. She figured if Sherlock wanted people to know, he would have responded to the million questions posed to him by reporters in the last two months. She hadn't held back anything really important. And then Sherlock had saved the world again, twice in one month. Never mind she got kidnapped by her ex-boyfriend's crazy sister. She was okay now.

_He's acting like he's jealous. But I'm over Sherlock. And he's got John now, anyway. Sherlock is my friend._

She sighed, and left the bedroom, confused and hurt. Maybe she'd have a better day at the hospital. She brightened as she left her flat, a bounce in her step. Seeing Sherlock Holmes would make any woman's day.

* * *

Anthea gazed at the slumbering face of Violet Hunter, endearing and striking despite the bruises and cut lip. The sun was still a few hours from rising, but Anthea usually got up at this time anyway. Her internal clock was telling her it was around five a.m.

Anthea stretched, feeling relaxed and content for the first time in over a month. She grabbed her neoprene sleeve from the nightstand, slipping it back over her wrist and hand. It was flesh tone and had two stiff braces in it to support her hand and wrist; many people didn't even notice it. Her wrist and hand were recovering nicely, in no small part due to the wonderful skill of Dr. Watson. Her surgeons had told her that if John hadn't helped her when he did, she may have lost the use of her hand. She owed much to Dr. John Watson.

Anthea slipped from bed where she had been sleeping beside Violet, and quietly got dressed. She spied Violet's mobile on the nightstand, and send her a text in lieu of writing a note. She was glad it was on Vibrate, not wanting to wake the poor girl. Anthea smiled wryly at herself; this 'girl', while younger than she, knew exactly what she was doing in bed.

**Have to go to work. I like you too. Call me? -Anthea**

Anthea carried her heels, and slipped silently from the room, taking the stairs without making a noise. She peered around the open kitchen door, and smiled at the two men eating at the charred remains of the table. At least, Dr Watson was eating. Sherlock was letting John steal his bagel as he zoned himself out.

"Good morning." She murmured, impishly delighted when John choked on his strawberry jam-covered bagel. She didn't let her mask of serenity slip, laughing behind her tiny smile. His face got a faint red hue on the cheeks, and he was doing his best not to stare at her, and failing. Sherlock just grunted something that vaguely sounded like good morning. He probably didn't even realize he was talking to her. He had that look on his face that implied he wasn't available for human interaction.

"Oh, um good morning….excuse me…" John coughed, taking a sip of his tea and finally swallowing his bagel. "How's Violet?"

His face got even redder, and she thought about taking pity on him. Thought about it, but decided not to, this was too much fun. Her smile was serene as she came in the room, leaning on the sooty table as she put on her heels.

"Violet is exceptional…. And sleeping." Anthea winked at John, and his jaw slowly unhinged itself to hang open. He didn't even breathe, the poor man. "You two look like you're going out. I'm assuming you aren't planning on leaving Violet alone all day, are you? Not after what happened."

John and Sherlock both blinked at each other, before turning back to her, guilty expressions on their faces. Well, John's at least, Sherlock rarely felt guilty about anything.

"We thought that since you and she were…." John started to mumble, stopping as she narrowed her green eyes at him.

"We had sex, yes. That doesn't mean she wants me to be her babysitter, Dr Watson." She stated with one brow quirked. "Not to mention I happen to live and work with Mycroft, the man who has no desire to spend time with his brother's daughter?"

"Are they planning my future again?" Violet groused as she stumbled into the kitchen, mobile in hand. She ignored her uncle and John, and tugged Anthea around, planting a very non-niece-like kiss on her lips. She pulled back just a hair, and rubbed their noses together. "I'm happy you like me back, and I'll call you for certain."

Violet let her go, spinning around her and heading for the fridge, opening the door. Anthea just sighed quietly, not letting on how much she was enjoying the very surprised and delighted expressions on John's face. Violet was bouncy and happy, humming loudly and beautifully on-key, not caring one bit she was wearing next to nothing, robe all askew.

Violet didn't even flinch at the human arm sitting on a platter in the center of the fridge. She just reached past it for the milk, slamming the door shut. Violet made her coffee, ignoring John as he did his best not to stare. Anthea repressed a giggle, thinking that poor John was in for some more surprises the longer the Holmes scion lived with them.

Anthea's mobile vibrated, and she checked the screen. Her car was here. Mycroft was starting his day as well.

"I must be off, Mycroft has sent for me." Anthea accepted a tiny kiss from Violet as she bounced back over to her, balancing her freshly made coffee in one hand. "Bye, call me."

Violet winked at her, sipping her coffee. Anthea turned away, shrugging into her coat, laughing when she heard Violet wolf whistle at her as she walked down the stairs.

* * *

"John, you'll have better success drinking your tea if you pick up your jaw from the table top." Sherlock said, wide awake and zoned in. John was dabbing at his wet chin, having forgotten how to drink while being distracted by two beautiful women snogging in his kitchen. Sherlock ignored the glare his lover sent his way, unperturbed.

John was most assuredly bisexual. Sherlock was certain, but as of yet he hadn't seen John exhibit attraction for another male, other than himself. He'd keep watching just to confirm. If he didn't, then Sherlock would just put down John's sexual preferences as 'undefined'. Not that it mattered, really. John loved him, and wanted him. He was just curious. Everything about John Watson was important to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock turned his attention to Violet, who was humming, eyes half shut, sipping her coffee as she leaned on the table. The elbows of her robe were getting turned black by the tabletop, but she didn't notice. Or care.

"Violet." Sherlock said, making her snap from her happy post-coital daze.

"Hmmm?" She hummed at him, sipping away.

"We are about to depart for St Bart's, go get dressed. Twenty minutes." Sherlock told her. "Unless you wish to go dressed in just your robe. John wouldn't mind."

John swatted at his shoulder, and Sherlock grinned at his doctor past his cup. Violet laughed so hard she split her cut lip again, and she walked back up the stairs to her room, alternating between giggling and gasping as her lip stung.

* * *

Violet napped in the cab, snug between John and Sherlock, her bag in her lap. She had brought all her toys, expecting a long day of sitting around in a lab, watching Molly and Sherlock talk about things she had no clue about. John would be leaving for work at some time in the morning, while Sherlock and Molly processed evidence.

Violet dozed, snuggling with John's very well-muscled shoulder. She didn't know what he did for exercise, but whatever it was, it was working. John always let her snuggle without complaint, though sometimes he would get a funny look on his face. She thought it was cute, so she kept doing it. Sherlock didn't care one bit who she snuggled with. And Violet found herself needing the snuggling, the aches and pains fading away under the comfort. Her night had been horrible and wonderful, and she just wanted a moment of quiet, to hit the reset button.

She'd snuggle with Sherlock, but she didn't want to push it. She had no personal space issues, really. As long as things didn't go sexual, she had no issues snuggling with men whatsoever. She preferred it sometimes, men having higher body heat temperatures and all. Though most men she became friends with always took her snuggling the wrong way. Except for John. He was a snuggler, too.

Sherlock let her touch him, quick hugs and a hand through his curls. Him holding her the night before had been the most contact they'd had since the day he told her who she was.

He was more emotional, more accessible, since John Watson had entered his life. The cold, analytical, petulant child was evolving, becoming a more mature, emotionally mercurial man who was almost, occasionally, close to normal. Sometimes. He still had his moments of complete and utter asshole-ness, but she didn't mind, and neither did John. And he did seem more of a child than an adult in most social situations. And he was still resoundingly ignorant on some matters. So she might have to reevaluate her opinion on him being more mature.

His mind was sharper than ever, and he didn't stray too far into manic depressions and obsessive behaviors like he used to. Unless you counted his obsession with John Watson. But he had always been obsessed with John, so that wasn't unusual for him. There was an indefinable quality to this Sherlock Holmes that had been absent from the young man she first met over a decade ago. He was better, and worse, all at the same time. He was a perfect collection of imperfection. To paraphrase John, Sherlock was the most 'human' person she had ever met.

John sighed into her hair, and she snuggled closer, wrapping an arm under his, burying her nose in his coat. He smelled like breakfast tea and mints, and she caught a whiff of Sherlock's hair product.

"Is she sleeping again?" John asked Sherlock over her head.

"Lucky her, she did have a busy night. Why are we going to Bart's at this ungodly hour again?" Sherlock groaned.

"Because you were too excited to sleep and you wanted to find out what the toxin was that killed the crazy gardener." John told him, his voice loving and exasperated at the same time. She smiled, content to let them talk over her head.

"Oh." Sherlock turned back to his window. The sun was an hour away from rising, but London was already awake. Traffic wasn't too bad at this time of morning, but the snow was making things slightly problematic. Everyone forgot how to drive the second it began to snow, slowing down traffic to a near crawl.

Violet slipped further into sleep, and she didn't notice when John smiled down at her, pressing a self-conscious kiss to her silky hair.

* * *

John Woodley thrust deeper, faster, chasing his orgasm, riding the whore under him hard. He groaned, jerking as he came, pulsing deep. Woodley exhaled, and rolled off the woman beneath him, sated. She shivered as he pulled away, curling under the covers. He forgot her as soon as she did, staring up at the ceiling in his private suite of Claridge's Hotel. He had been using her all night since leaving Hyde Park, but she hadn't been enough. He had chosen her because of her looks, obviously; her dark hair and deep blue eyes close enough to his obsession it had taken off the edge. The whore was his last ditch effort in calming down. But while his body may be fulfilled, his anger threatened to override his control.

Detesting sweat and hating how the sheets clung to him, Woodley got out of king-sized bed, waving a hand idly in dismissal. The woman slipped from his bed, grabbing her dress and shoes as she went. Woodley would call her back if he had another urge, the staff knew to keep track of her. He stepped into his bathroom, indifferent as she limped from the room. He turned on all the shower heads in the large, marble and glass stall, water spraying out instantly hot from every corner.

Woodley let the spray do all the work, washing away his frustration. The whore may have taken off the edge, but he was fighting a losing battle with his anger. Contemplating his current problem was merely making him angrier.

Sherlock Holmes had stumbled across the fringes of his enterprise, and if the man kept looking, then he would most certainly see the whole of it. He was too close to fulfilling his goals to have some self-proclaimed consulting detective with a god complex stop him now.

So he had sent his minions to put a quick end to Holmes' interference, but what his people had reported back was enough to almost make being discovered well worth the risk. Sherlock Holmes had something John Woodley wanted, very badly. Something he had wanted for a long time now. It was lucky in many ways that the junkies sent to Baker Street had failed.

When he had leaned just who Sherlock Holmes had living under his roof, Woodley knew his goals were nearer to fruition than he had dreamed. The universe had always loved John Woodley, and finding the gorgeous and brilliant Violet Hunter had merely proved it yet again.

The law abiding citizens of the world may see Violet Hunter as the long lost niece of England's most famous private citizen, but those who lived on the darker side of the law knew who she really was. And even then, those who knew were an elite company. She was very selective in whom she took on as a client. Violet Hunter was the world's foremost hacker and programmer. Anything that you could think of, she could do. As long as you could afford her prices; she wasn't cheap. Getting ahold of her through the usual back channels took time, and money. He had been tracking her for a year now, and had nearly gotten the US government to hand her over three months prior. But she had slipped away before his procurer could catch her, and she had reemerged here in London, under the protective graces of her long-lost family.

He wasn't willing to part with more of his hard earned money for her to do a job for him, when he could just have the girl. His father had always told him: it was better to have the goose that laid the golden egg, rather than a single egg. And with Violet Hunter under his thumb, he'd have all the damn golden omelets he could want.

His men had blown the attempt to get her the night before. Peter had chosen the wrong people, sending in junkies high on his product. The drugs weren't refined yet at the stage they had been used, and every person's reactions were different. Either you went batshit crazy, or walked around in a stupor for over a day. Or you died, in a horrible, disgusting fashion. He had ordered her kidnapping, but the man sent in had an adverse reaction to the drugs, and descended into madness, nearly killing her instead. The others had left once it was clear she was still alive, and that the man sent in was dead.

Woodley wondered how she survived, as all of his research on he had said that while highly intelligent and adaptive, Violet Hunter had no skills whatsoever in self-defense. He thought it likely the drugs had incapacitated the junkie enough for her to kill him, which was more believable than the report filed by the Yard saying she had fought him off with a sword.

Peter was lucky he was needed after the previous day's colossal fuckup; not many junkies retained the balls to tell him unpleasant news. And Woodley loved the way he groveled. Not to mention Hannibal liked to torture him.

Woodley turned off the water, grabbing a towel as he walked out of the bathroom.

"Master." Peter hurried away from the bed, hands behind his back. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched.

_Not again, the fucking deviant!_

Woodley stopped, and narrowed his eyes at his servant. He was avoiding eye contact, which was proper, but he seemed very intent on not showing his hands for some reason. Sighing in disgust, Woodley grabbed a nearby vase full of roses, and hurled it at Peter's head. The weight of the roses and the water made it wobble in flight, saving Peter from getting a cracked skull as the heavy porcelain smashed into his chest instead. It didn't shatter, just sprayed water and thorn shrouded roses everywhere before thudding to the floor.

Peter fell back, landing on his ass, hands braced on the floor, revealing the strip of red cloth in one hand. Peter had the unfortunate habit of collecting women's underwear. Not to wear himself, but to keep. To play with, carry around in his nasty pockets. He especially liked the ones worn by the women his master fucked. Woodley strode over to Peter, and kicked him, hard. His foot caught the junkie in the kidney, making him cry out, gagging. Woodley pulled his foot back to kick again, but Peter curled in on himself, stammering apologies.

"Fucking pervert." Woodley snarled, walking away from the junkie huddling on the wet floor. "Pick that up, then tell me what you came in here for. And if you say it was to collect that fucking memento, then I'll feed you to my dog faster than my momma could spit."

His Rottweiler Hannibal perked up in the far corner, where he was gnawing on a large rawhide bone. Peter shrank back, and reached for the spilled flowers, one eye on the monstrous beast as he chewed on the tough leather. Hannibal was sixty kg of pure unadulterated muscle, and had the temperament of a nasty, spoiled, bloodthirsty child who delighted in tearing the heads off of dolls. And he was staring at Peter like he was the most delicious doll he'd ever seen.

Woodley went to his dressing room, his feet soundless on the thick, luxurious carpeting in the suite. The deep creams and succulent beiges of the carpeting was complimented by the deep red of the wood furniture, the soft blue walls. The dressing room was as large as the master bedroom, full of clothing he could spend a lifetime wearing. Most if it he would never wear; he had ordered his closets to be full of designer clothes, paying an exorbitant amount for some stranger to dress him. The result had been a never ending array of suits and formal wear, ridiculous jackets and scarves. What the fuck was a Westwood, anyway? But he knew better than to wear his rough denims and beat up jumpers. The most powerful drug lord in London had an image to project, and looking like a dock worker wasn't part of it.

He was a large man, all muscles and no fat to spare. He worked out daily, refusing to become soft at the easy living he was enjoying. His former boss had gotten lazy, and that laziness had let Woodley steal his empire out from under him. With just a small amount of help from a certain dead consulting criminal of course, but no one else knew that. And he had no intention of telling anyone, either.

He couldn't help his humble, brutal beginnings as a thug breaking bones for loan sharks, but he had changed his future. After taking over the drug scene in London from his former employer, Woodley had quickly stripped away as much of his rough exterior as possible. He kept the tattoos and scars covered, and dressed only in the best clothes. He'd dress like a spoiled trust fund prick if it kept the old rumors at bay. He was a well-respected businessman now, and he had to be above reproach. In public at least, and in the eyes of the law. What the world didn't know, wouldn't hurt him any.

Woodley grabbed the nearest suit, ignoring the sobbing junkie cleaning up the mess in the bedroom. He dressed, pleased when he heard Peter swear quietly as the thorns from the roses stabbed his hands. Hannibal growled; his deep rumble was loud even in the dressing room. Peter shut up, and Woodley grinned as his dog minded the junkie in the other room. Hannibal had no patience for the junkies his master surrounded himself with; snapping regularly whenever one was foolish enough to step too close.

Peter finished just as Woodley left the dressing room, dropping the roses in a wastebasket, hands bleeding from numerous tiny thorn marks. The slip of red fabric was out of sight, presumably in the freak's pocket. Woodley snapped his fingers, and Hannibal leapt up from his bed in the corner, lumbering over to put his head under his master's hand. Peter gulped, eyeing the dog as Woodley stroked the great head. Hannibal sniffed loudly, scenting the blood from the tiny cuts on Peter's hands.

"Why are you here?" Woodley asked, tugging on Hannibal's ears, the dog leaning on his leg.

"Master. The police are still collecting evidence at the nursery, and Holmes has left his flat with his niece and his partner, heading for St Bart's. He appears to still be on the case. We have been assured from our contacts in Scotland Yard that he has not yet begun work on the evidence. We believe he will be at the hospital for the majority of the day. Do you wish for us to try again?"

"What, kill Sherlock Holmes and kidnap his niece from a hospital with hundreds of potential witnesses? I think not. The hospital is still overrun with police, not to mention MI6. Put a tail on them. I want to know where they are at every moment of the day." Woodley scratched Hannibal's ears, his dog leaning harder on his leg the deeper he rubbed. "Besides, he won't find much from the evidence; it's been too long, it'll break down soon enough."

"Yes, Master." Peter dipped his head, and hesitated. "I was informed as well that Mr. Williamson is on his way to London. His private jet is expected to land sometime this evening."

Woodley stilled, and Hannibal shifted at his feet. The dog growled softly, sensing his master's sudden mood change. Peter shrank back, hands going up, torn between fearing his master, and the beast.

"Perhaps you should have told me that sooner?" Woodley growled, sounding exactly like his dog.

"I… well, yes. My apologies, master. I was informed that his business has nothing to do with your arrangement. He comes to London on a separate matter, with official orders from the CIA." Peter's voice was shaking, and he waited anxiously to see if his master would let the brute eat his face off.

Woodley's tension eased, and the dog relaxed enough to sit. Woodley ignored Peter, thinking hard. For Williamson to leave the United States was rare. Whatever prompted him to do so must be major. Official duties, how interesting. There was something here he wanted.

_The Vicar is coming to London. I wonder what could be important enough to get him to leave Langley._

"Send him my greetings through our usual channels. Discretely and politely, Peter." Woodley ordered, Peter nodding exuberantly in relief.

"I'll be visiting the labs after lunch. Make sure the car is ready." Peter bowed awkwardly, backing from the room. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Um… nowhere. My apologies, sir. What else may I do for you?" Peter was dreading the words he knew were coming. Every time he came here, it was the same thing.

"Hannibal needs his walk." Woodley laughed as Peter paled, Hannibal getting to his feet. No matter the dog, every one of them the world over loved to go for walks. "His lead is on the door; do make sure he doesn't eat anyone's pet this time."

Peter shivered, but did as ordered. Woodley waved a hand at the dog, which ran excitedly for the door. They left, Hannibal dragging the slim excuse for man behind him out the suite. Woodley moved to the far side of the room. He pulled a painting from the wall, revealing the safe behind it. He spun in the combination, opening the heavy door. He reached in, and pulled out a beige manila folder. There was a picture stapled to the outside flap, and he stared at it, entranced.

She was remarkable, Violet Hunter. Raven dark hair, beautiful amethyst eyes, lightly tanned skin and the brilliance of a genius. She had inherited her family's penchant for intelligence, in its full measure. She would soon be his, along with the billions of dollars she would make him.

* * *

Sherlock walked down the long hall to the pathology lab, noting as he did the lights on within. Molly was there already. John and Violet were bringing up the rear, the good doctor charmed into carrying Violet's bag for her. All she did was slip just the tiniest bit on the sidewalk in the snow, and John had practically ripped the bag from her shoulder. Violet smiled at him, and took his arm, letting John play escort.

Dawn was on its way, the horizon lighting up slowly. It was meant to be warmer today than the day before, melting the first snowfall before midday.

Sherlock burst into the lab, startling his favorite pathologist as she was shrugging into her lab coat. Sherlock just grinned at Molly, and tossed his coat at the coatrack beside the door.

"Has the evidence been sent over?" Sherlock asked Molly, his way of saying hello and good morning all rolled into one. She nodded, and pointed to the table, where a single box sat next to his preferred microscope.

Sherlock eyed the younger woman as he rolled up his sleeves, pushing his jacket back to his elbows. John and Violet came in, having taken their time walking the hall. Violet just waved a casual greeting, heading for the small office of the lab. John grabbed a seat at the table, pulling out his mobile and doing something.

Molly was quiet. She usually was, just hovering at his elbow, watching him work. She was always willing to help, knowing what he needed, wanted before he had to voice it, and she never bored him. Yet this morning she was avoiding eye contact, twirling her engagement ring, and biting her lip. She had gotten dressed in the dark going by the state of her shoelaces. Which meant Sherlock had woken her from her bed that morning with his text. She didn't sleep alone, so he most likely woke the man she lived with as well.

_Fiancé troubles. What was his name again? Terry, Todd, something boring…. Tom. I think._

Sherlock sat in her chair, using her microscope as he always did. It was the best one in the lab by far. Molly sat in the stool next to him, elbows on the table, picking at her nails. She did that when she was thinking about something unpleasant. He let her be, focusing on the box next to him. He gave it five minutes before she started in on what was bothering her. She reached out, pulling a notepad and pencil over for him, sliding it to his nearest hand without saying a word. She was moving on autopilot, their habits of working together for so long deeply ingrained.

Sherlock pulled out the small baggies of evidence, tossing aside the irrelevant ones until he found Donovan's glove, the one that had the film on it from grabbing the door handle. He took the latex gloves Molly handed his way, snapping them on without a word. She gave him a pair of shears, and he cut open the evidence bag, pulling out the leather glove. He examined every centimeter of it, saving the shiny film for last.

Molly sighed quietly beside him, so low he almost didn't catch it. He didn't put down the glove, but he snuck a quick look at her from the corner of his eye. She would usually be sitting next to him, watching his every move. She was assisting as usual, no fault there, but her attention was so obviously elsewhere. Her thoughts were so chaotic he could almost hear them bashing against his own eardrums.

"You are exceptionally distracted, Molly." Sherlock stated, dropping the glove. He did his best not to show his irritation. In fact, he was doing his best not to be irritated. It was hard, but he was trying. He couldn't very well call her a friend, and then be unfriendly. At least he thought that's how it worked.

"Sorry." Molly sighed again, louder. She bit her lip so hard Sherlock was surprised it wasn't bleeding.

He rolled his eyes, and figured he might as well solve the emotional mystery before the case.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock peeled off his gloves, tossing them to the table.

He hid his instinctive flinch as she looked at him in surprise. She was still expecting him to be his former cold and remote self with her, and old habits die hard. He smiled at her, trying to have it be supportive or whatever it was he was supposed to be for this sort of thing. She appeared wary, and he mentally cursed himself for not trying hard enough. He scared her off, she might mope all day and he couldn't have that. Not to mention a small part of him was fighting the urge to go find a certain doppelgänger fiancé and beat the ever-living snot out of him. For that man was obviously why she was upset, and no one messed with Molly Hooper but Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh. Um….." She was about to say 'nothing', and he glared at her. She sighed, and dropped her head in her hands. "Tom."

"Well, yes, obviously. Elaborate." Sherlock ordered, turning to her completely, giving up on work for the moment. Sherlock ignored John, who was watching very intently, most likely thinking he'd have to intervene and save Molly if Sherlock got too out of hand. But Sherlock had been practicing making small talk, (in his head), and felt he could do this.

"He was upset with me this morning." She mumbled, not looking at him. Her hair obscured her face, and he told himself reaching out to move it so he could see her expression might not be a good idea. "Because you asked me to come in early to help you with a case."

"Why would that bother him? I've been doing that for years." Sherlock took her willingness to aid him on cases as a given. He knew she enjoyed it, even he could see that. And he knew she was in love him, too. But they had managed to ignore that for the last few years, and he had been relieved when she found someone more normal to love. Someone who wasn't a sociopath. She deserved better than him. He couldn't be what she wanted.

"He was just very upset that it was you. He's been upset since you came back, since we went solving cases together that one day, and since I was kidnapped by my ex-boyfriend's little sister because she was mad at you." Molly said all of that in a mad rush, her words tumbling but easy enough to understand. "I think he's jealous of you. I don't know why. It's not like you and I ever….."

She trailed off, her cheeks getting red, eyes sadder. He was horrified for a split second that she would start to cry. She just shrugged at him, and went back to picking at her nails.

"No, we've never….." Sherlock murmured, realizing he had no clue what to say or do. He had an unexpected thought. "Did you tell him that I kissed you?"

John Watson spilled out of his chair so fast he dropped his mobile. He bent over to pick it up, hitting his head on the edge of the table as he came back up. He slapped a hand to his head, rubbing it while trying not to make it obvious he had heard. Molly and Sherlock both stared at him, wondering what in the world was wrong with the man. John blinked, and opened and shut his mouth a few times before mumbling something unintelligible. He sat back down in his chair, pretending (badly) not to be listening, playing on his mobile. Sherlock just shook his head, and looked back at Molly.

"No, I didn't tell him. It was just twice on the cheek, anyway. No big deal." Molly blushed, and smiled the first truly happy smile at him he'd seen since he came in. He smiled back at her, relieved to see a faint glimmer in her eyes. Molly was too sad, too often. If she needed a kiss on the cheek to make her smile, he'd give her one every day.

"Oh. Hhhmmmm." Sherlock thought hard, wondering what else would prompt her fiancé to suddenly take him in aversion. He'd only met the man once. "Did he see your goodbye video?"

"Oh, no." Molly stammered, blush fading at the mention of her forced farewell video, thinking she was dying, and confessing her everlasting love to him as she did. "I haven't even seen that!"

"Well, yes, never mind. Classified and all." Sherlock was stumped. But he refused to give up. He hated giving up.

Sherlock ignored the loud sigh from John's end of the table. Sherlock knew he was missing something obvious, but as this whole thing was an emotional issue, Sherlock was swimming in uncharted waters. He understood John, and how he felt about him. He knew John loved him; it was so clear and powerful. Thinking about John loving him reminded him that Molly loved him, in much the same way.

This epiphany was painful, compared to his usual ones, the ones that gave him a high better than any cocaine he'd ever used. This time it made his eyes sting, his fingers go cold.

_Oh Molly. He's jealous because he knows you're still in love with me. You love me more than him. And you let me back in your life as if I never left. To you, and you alone, I was not dead, so you never mourned, never let me go. You can't let me go._

Sherlock tossed a look at John, asking him silently to give him a moment. John met his gaze, the doctor solemn and understanding. He got up, and went to the small office where Violet was working, closing the door behind him. Sherlock turned back to Molly, who wasn't looking at him, avoiding his eyes like a child expecting a lecture.

"Is it because you are in love with me?" Sherlock asked her gently. Her eyes flew to his, glimmering with tears, her lip bruised from biting it.

"I think so…..." She whispered, and the tears spilled over. Her face scrunched up, and she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. She tried to get up, but Sherlock grabbed her carefully, pulling her to his chest. Hugging her may not be the best idea, but she was so sad. She burrowed her head under his chin, and he held her thin frame as she sobbed out her pain.

Sherlock didn't speak. What could he say to her? He wasn't for her, his heart and soul belonged to one man, his doctor. He loved her, but not the way she wished. She knew all of this, having confronted it as she thought she was dying.

Sherlock had a thought, an option before him that was unpleasant and went against everything he wanted from his life. But for her, he would do it. For Molly Hooper, he would walk away. Excise his presence from her world, so she could move on. Find love with someone who could give her what she needed.

"Molly….." Sherlock whispered in her ear. "Do you want me to go? Leave?"

"What?" She gasped out, her tears wetting his neck. He didn't mind. She'd cried on him before.

"You love me. I can't love you back, not like that. Do you want me to leave? I'll do my work in one of the other labs; get Scotland Yard to give me access to another pathologist. I'll go, completely. So you can move on." Sherlock coughed as she tightened her grip on him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"_NO._" She sounded so sure he snapped his mouth shut, wondering if he'd just made things worse. She pressed against him, and he sighed, lost.

"Sorry." Sherlock mumbled, and decided to just hug her. He was getting good at hugging women as they cried on him. Maybe she just needed to cry. He hoped that would work.

* * *

"Poor Molly." Violet said softly as John sat beside her on the leather couch in Molly's office. She didn't look up from her laptop, just listened to the faint sounds of tears coming through the door. "Poor Sherlock, too."

"Yeah, it's a right mess. Don't know what he's going to do about it, either." John told her, dropping his head back on the cushions.

"Aren't you on your way to work here in a bit?" Violet asked, eyes following a stray line of code through a program she was trying to repair. She must have wrote this while high or something the first time. She hadn't partaken of anything in a few months, so she wasn't sure. John didn't reply, and she stopped, watching as he got slightly pink in the face. She'd never met a man who blushed as easily as John Watson. "What?"

"I called off the next two days." John muttered, eyes shut, head still back. That would mean he wasn't going to work for four more days, as that would bring them to the weekend. Vacation?

"Umm, why?" Violet asked, befuddled.

"Because someone tried to kill you last night." John said, exasperated.

Violet found herself getting all teary, and she bumped his shoulder with her own.

"You softie." She whispered, going back to her code, leaning on him until he roped her in, letting her snuggle all she wanted.

* * *

The Lear jet soared across the still dark sky, stars burning brilliantly above as it headed eastward to the distant shores of England. It was so quiet in the cabin that he could hear his own heartbeat. Silence, exactly as he liked it. His men were in the rear, as far from their boss as they could get. He took that as a good sign; it meant his reputation in the field hadn't diminished at all in the years since he'd last run a mission.

The mission he was on was sanctioned, in so far as any of them could ever be. Especially on the sovereign soil of an allied nation. He knew how to mind his manners, as long as he received the cooperation he need to complete his mission. He opened his laptop, and accessed the files of the formerly assumed dead intelligence officer known only as A.G.R.A. She had been labeled dead almost six years earlier. After dying in an explosion that also took out her assigned targets. Which he knew were really dead, as enough DNA evidence had been recovered for them to be identified afterwards. There had been none for her, which should have tipped off the cleaners after the explosion that something wasn't right.

He sighed in frustration, ruing the day he had accepted the promotion to director of special operations. Once he left the field, officers had started to get lazy. He had taught most of them better.

Most of the men he had with him now weren't his, many of them too young to have been trained by him while he taught at the Farm. But the stubborn and violent Golden Girl had been his trainee. She had flourished under his tutelage, becoming an unstoppable force of nature. He had enjoyed stripping from her any trace of the young woman she had been, reducing her to nothing but an efficient and obedient machine. She quickly outstripped her peers, graduating early, and within a year she was breaking records for her age group. Her mission success rate had been flawless. She had nearly four hundred confirmed kill actions to her credit. No one had even come close to breaking her record in the years since she 'died'.

Silas Williamson, Director of Special Operations for the CIA, aka 'The Vicar', was hunting his former protégé. She had been confirmed alive almost two months ago, living in London, under the name of Mary Morstan. And he would find her, without a doubt. She wasn't the only one with a flawless record.

* * *

Greg groaned in frustration, glaring at the wheelchair the nurse was holding for him. He could walk, just very carefully, and as long as he didn't move his left arm any.

"C'mon Boss, you know you need it." Sally needled him, and he rolled his eyes at his sergeant when she grinned. "Hurry up, I hate hospitals."

Sally ignored the glare from the nurse holding the chair, carrying the small duffel bag containing his few clothes and personal items.

Greg stopped hesitating, knowing the sooner he got in the damned chair, the sooner he'd be outside. Out of this room he'd been in for over a month. He levered himself slowly out away from the bed, and moved carefully to the chair. It was only a couple of feet, but it felt like a mile before he lowered himself into the seat. He refused to show how hard it had been, ignoring the sweat rolling down his temple at the effort. If they saw how hard it was, they may not let him leave.

He knew technically he was only being released from the hospital into private care. Mycroft had pulled off the impossible, arranging for private nurses and a special bed and equipment at his townhouse, all within a few hours. But to him, he felt like a kid escaping school for a summer holiday.

Greg endured the indignity of being wheeled out like an old man, Sally following behind. They exited at the front entrance of the hospital, and Sally went into berserker mode when she saw a couple of reporters waiting on him. He ignored them, letting Sally keep them at bay as the nurse wheeled him to Mycroft's black Jaguar. The great black car was purring in the melting snow of the street, and the valet opened the door for him. Sally hovered, but he waved off her help as he slowly gripped the door, stood with infinite care, and lowered himself into the very luxurious interior of the car. It was warm, and soft, and he hardly had the strength to move once he sat down.

Sally hopped in after him, slamming the door on the reporters taking pictures. He could care less. His entire torso was throbbing in time with his heart, and he was sweating. She didn't say a word, just kept him company as the car pulled out and away from St Bart's.

"Tell me what's going on at the Yard, please." He tried his best not to sound like he was begging. He needed a distraction from the pain.

"Got a double murder yesterday, Sherlock's on it." Sally told him, watching the streets blur as the car accelerated through downtown traffic.

"Oh, well, take the week off, he's got it sorted." Greg chuckled, gasping as he remembered he shouldn't laugh. "How's my office doing?"

"It's still your office, and I'm reminded of that every time I accidentally sit at my old desk." She grumbled, and he smiled at the discomfort in her voice. "I cannot wait for you to get better and take it back."

"Me neither! Not because you're doing a bad job, you aren't, really. I just hate being, well…. This." Greg waved a hand at his entire body, encompassing his aches and pains and damned frailty.

"I know." Sally smiled brightly, and he had to do a double take at the glitter of moisture in her eyes. "I need you back, Boss."

"Hey now, none of that. Don't know why you're crying, I was the poor bloke thinking his partner was dead for days on end." Greg said, and she sniffled.

"I am so sorry about that." Sally said again, for the millionth time. He waved at her, stilling her endless apologies. She hadn't stopped apologizing since the day he woke up to find out she lived.

"You didn't know what that bitch was doing. It's not your fault." Greg said, catching her hand, holding it tightly. He held her hand until the car pulled up in front of Mycroft's house, the grand white entrance daunting in the morning light.

"Wow, your boyfriend's got a nice house. Must be good money, running the country." Greg sputtered at her calling Mycroft his boyfriend. The word 'boyfriend' just didn't match up with his mental image of Mycroft Holmes. The word was too insignificant.

"We aren't, he hasn't…" Greg gave up, not knowing what they were.

"Of course he's your boyfriend, you just moved in with him." Sally said, exasperated.

"But we haven't even…" Greg shut up as the door was opened, and he dropped his head when he was greeted by another wheelchair.

Getting him into the house wasn't an issue, nor was getting settled in a large, spacious sitting room on the first floor of the house, near the rear garden, that was converted into a bedroom. The problem was he felt horribly awkward, and immediately lost. He'd spent a good week of his life here when they were dealing with Jaime Moriarty. But then he'd had purpose, a reason to be here, a focus outside himself. He'd spent two days wrapped up in Mycroft's arms, as they comforted each other as best they could when they thought Sally and Anthea were dead. But those two days felt like they hadn't happened, in so many ways. The day he remembered best was the morning after Moriarty stormed the townhouse, kidnapping John. That morning he'd done something he'd never thought possible, not for him. He'd kissed Mycroft Holmes, and the MI6 man had let him.

"I'm off, Boss. It is okay I come by to visit, right? This place looks like a museum." Sally was almost whispering, eyeing the very expensive furniture.

"Yeah, don't see why not. I'm not going anywhere." He smiled at her as she dropped his bag on the bed, waving as she walked out.

Greg relaxed as best he could on the very soft couch the now absent attendant had left him, and he realized he had nothing to do. He was bored, again. But he wouldn't complain, he was out of the damn hospital, and he was thankful.

Now all he needed was to know where his host was. Greg hadn't seen him yet, not once. He tried not to feel upset, considering that Mycroft Holmes literally ran the British Government. Man was probably busy.

He slowly lowered himself down on the couch, glad to be resting flat on something that wasn't a bloody hospital bed. He groaned, happy to be able to put his feet up, even if it was on the very expensive looking fabric of the armrest. It wasn't his armchair back at his flat, but it would do in a pinch.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he felt fingers running through the hair at his temple. He hovered in that peaceful place between waking and dreaming, happy and content. He lifted an arm, letting it fall back over his head, stretching out the tight, sore muscles of his side, and it fell across the muscular lap of the man sitting next to his head. He sighed, feeling warm and relaxed, and rubbed his head against the leg beside him.

Those warm, gentle fingers traced the edge of his ear, sending tiny shivers down his neck, across his skin, before drifting back through his hair. He had the fuzzy thought that he was really glad he hadn't cut it, that it was longer than usual. It felt so very good.

A hand found his, of the arm draped across the lap of the man showing him such wonderful attention. Fingers intertwined, and a thumb rubbed circles on his palm. He stirred, the tingles waking him further from that happy place of lazy warmth. He moved his head a little bit, and blinked up at the man sitting on the couch with him.

Mycroft gave him a tiny smile, not saying anything, fingers still playing in his hair. Their eyes met, and held, no tension between them, just relaxed and content. Greg smiled back, and let his eyes drift shut.

"Enjoying your stay, Gregory?" Mycroft asked him, voice low, caressing.

"Hmm." It was the only reply he had the strength for, so tired and content was he. Greg rubbed his head on Mycroft's leg, trying to get closer. Mycroft's hand tightened on his, the thumb rubbing his palm firmer, slower, a small heat building in him.

"So I see." Mycroft sounded happy, amused. It was so strange, hearing those emotions in Mycroft's voice. Greg couldn't really recall hearing Mycroft be happy more than once before; when Mycroft had called him back from that in-between place of nothingness. When he had tried to tell Mycroft that he would do anything for him, even come back from the dead.

"Feels good." Greg whispered, trying really hard to open his eyes, to see Mycroft. Greg managed it, and he knew that tiny flutter in his chest, that stirred his heart when he saw that face, was love. He loved this man, this man he barely knew, and his friend's brother, who ran the entire nation from a massive underground bunker beneath their feet. Greg loved him.

He was so happy, and tired, and caught up in the sweet and lazy warmth, that he just let the words out. He had no thought of repercussions or fear of rejection. Just love.

"Love you." He sighed. His eyes drifted shut, and he tried not to fall asleep, but he couldn't resist. He fell away, his thoughts loosening from his waking mind, and the last thing he heard helped the nascent sensations in his heart grow.

"I love you too, Gregory." Mycroft whispered to the sleeping man. He was overcome, glad no one could see him. He had never, in all his long empty years, said those words to another human being.

* * *

Mycroft leaned back on the couch, his fingers still running through Gregory's silky fox grey hair. There was a darker stripe along the crown of his head, whiter down the sides and at his temples. He wasn't losing any hair, it had just gone this lovely blend of smoky grey and snow white. It was thick and full and Mycroft couldn't stop touching it. He smiled at himself, glad the door was shut, and that he was alone. He had just been planning to stop in briefly, say his hellos and go back to work. But Gregory had been sleeping, and he looked so much more relaxed and content on the couch than he had ever been at the hospital. He had looked so appealing that Mycroft had closed the door and snuck over to the couch.

Mycroft was experiencing a sensation he thought he would never feel in his life. That such a thing was not meant for him, that he must spurn it, cast it aside if it ever grew in him. But now that he felt it, he wanted it so much. Greg loved him, his current state making it hard for him to lie, or to embellish the truth. Mycroft had been in enough interrogations to know when someone was telling the truth. Greg loved him, and Mycroft was beyond ecstatic. He didn't know how to show it, but every fiber of his body, heart, mind, and that indefinable quality he must label his soul loved Gregory Lestrade. So those simple and inadequate words would have to do, for now.

Mycroft tried to ignore the mobile in his pocket, as it vibrated incessantly at him for the millionth time in the last five minutes. He gave it two minutes before Anthea came for him herself. He understood her impatience, as he hated it when people ignored him too. But this time he couldn't care, not really. He had found a moment of pure, strings free happiness, and he wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could.

Considering who was flying into the country today, Mycroft Holmes knew that happiness would be in short supply, for himself, his brother, and John Watson.

The Vicar was coming for Mary Morstan, and Mycroft Holmes had been ordered to help him find her. The directive had come from one of the two people in the entire country capable of ordering him to do anything.

* * *

Mary groaned in frustration, dropping the mobile to the settee. There was nothing left to read, watch, and listen to on the mobile. She felt like she'd scoured the entirety of the internet in the last month. She was trapped, and had nothing to do. She was going insane sitting in this fake house.

She lashed out, slamming her fist into the wall, ignoring the intense flash of pain that radiated out from her knuckles, up her wrist. The skin tore on her knuckles, but she was past caring. Anything felt good right now.

_I can't fucking take it anymore. I'm losing it. I'm going insane._

Mary picked up her mobile, disregarding the blood dripping from her hand. She typed in a text, and hit Send. She didn't even care which Holmes she sent it to either.

**If I don't get some fresh air soon I'm turning myself in just so I'll have something to fucking do. I'll take killing guards over these concrete walls –MM**

Mary knew she was being childish, but she had no reserves left. Her hormones were starting to drive even herself crazy, and not being able to leave this building was actually producing a sick feeling in her stomach.

Mary flung herself down on the settee, and grabbed her pillow, hugging it. She clutched her mobile, and found herself wishing for company. Anyone's right now.

She found herself thinking about John. The way he smiled, walked, the scent of his cologne. The ugly jumpers he wore on his days off, and the black suede jacket he wore to work. The way he made his tea in the mornings, and how he'd always read the same section of newspaper first every day.

Mary flinched at the pain she felt at these memories, and sternly cast them aside. He was gone. She had nothing left of him but the life she carried.

She pressed her face in her pillow, and rested. Stress wasn't good for the baby. She'd force herself to cope somehow.

Mary relaxed, and found her thoughts drifting further. Anything to get John out of her head, she thought of Jaime.

A woman born with exceptional gifts, abilities to rival even a veteran assassin with a decade more experience. She had been brilliant, tactical, brutally efficient, and mercurial. She had done the impossible, which no matter how much training a person may get, could never really do: She had exorcised all fear. Jaime Moriarty had been the definition of fearless. And she was thoroughly, utterly insane. Jaime Moriarty had been broken as a child, she and her big brother Jim. Both broken, and abandoned by the world. And to protect themselves, they became monsters, conquering the threats against them, and wielding evil as both shield and weapon.

She had also, in some strange and wonderful way, become Mary's friend. A partner. Once Jaime had extended the chance to avenge their mutually broken hearts, and Mary accepted, Jaime had treated Mary as an equal. Full access to weapons, plans, decisions. And while Mary had been focused on avenging her scorned affections, Jaime Moriarty had given her heart to Mary. She didn't know how, or why, but Jaime had loved her in the end. Loved the assassin who had been born Amelia. There had been no one left in all the world who knew her birth name, but Jaime had.

And Jaime died in a cage in a hellstorm of fire. Mary shuddered at the possibility that Jaime may not have found the knife she'd accidentally left in her jacket when she covered the unconscious woman with it in the cage. And the chance that she had. That the last remaining scion of the Moriarty clan was alive. Mary's thoughts were chaotic, caught up in the nightmare of possibilities.

Jaime had been a dreadful, horrific reminder of the frailty of life and the human heart. That anyone could become evil. Mary had been so close to becoming her, six years ago. If she hadn't decided to retire and fake her death, she would most likely be worse than Jaime Moriarty had ever been. If her own agency hadn't decided to retire her first. With a bullet.

Mary sat up, and threw the pillow away. Thinking about the young woman who had found the remnants of Mary's broken heart was merely adding to her misery. Mary decided then and there that she wanted to get out of these concrete walls if it was the last thing she did. And she wished with all her heart that she would see the beautiful and mad face of Jaime Moriarty when she stepped out the doors of Leinster Gardens.

* * *

Sherlock rested his chin on Molly's head, the shorter woman crying on his chest. Her tears were easing, and she had relaxed her grip on his neck. He hadn't said anything after she shot down his suggestion that he leave her, leave her life. Her refusal to even hear it made Sherlock feel weird, happy and sad all at once. These emotions were confusing, and he had trouble prioritizing them.

"Sherlock?" That wasn't Molly, but Violet. He looked up, to see Violet in the doorway of the small lab office, John at her shoulder.

He didn't say anything, just lifted an eyebrow in query. She stepped out, her bag over her shoulder, coat on. She was leaving, and John was going with her, if his doctor's expression said anything about it.

"Going to go see a mutual friend, cabin fever and all." She told him. "John's coming with me."

Sherlock sighed, not wanting his doctor or niece out of his sight, but realizing that he hadn't much choice right now. He nodded, and locked eyes with John. His doctor gave him that small, intense, sweet smile he never showed anyone else, before his eyes dropped to the woman crying on Sherlock. John shrugged, his eyes communicating an emotion Sherlock couldn't quite figure out. Regret? What could John be regretting?

John waved his mobile at him before following Violet out the door. John would text him, of course.

Molly lifted her head as she heard the doors swing shut, wiping at her cheeks. He lifted his hands, wondering what to do. She was usually so easy to be around, but he was lost in this instance. Had he hugged her too long? Not long enough?

She wiped away the tears still on her face, and did her best to smile at him.

"Better now?" He dared to ask, thinking in his deepest of hearts that things would never be better. He couldn't be what she wanted.

Molly didn't answer, a hand coming to rest on his chest. She seemed to be thinking hard, her face hiding her thoughts from him. Sherlock waited, wondering what she was thinking. Molly let her eyes flow over his face, as if seeing him for the first time, or the last. As if she wanted to remember every line, every smooth plane. He was so distracted by the fact he couldn't read her that he didn't see what she intended before it was too late.

Molly kissed him. She kissed him deep, and fully, hands holding his face, body pressed to his, warm and soft and curvy in new places. Her lips were soft, and sweet, and tasted of tears. Sherlock gasped, frozen, and she took her chance, kissing him deeper. Her tiny tongue touched his before darting away, to briefly explore his mouth as her lips moved over his. She gave him a kiss full of passion and love and desire, achingly sweet and pure.

Kissing her so was so different from kissing John that Sherlock nearly shut down, utterly befuddled. He would realize in hindsight that perhaps he should have disentangled himself immediately, but he hoped he could be forgiven, never having kissed a woman like this before. A cheek kiss for his mother or Mrs. Hudson sure, but never had he ever kissed a woman like this. Jaime Moriarty had kissed him while he was in the hospital, but not even remotely like this. Molly's kiss literally had no comparison in his experience. Her fingers wove through his hair, and she held her whole body to him. He just sat there on his stool, and let her kiss him. And kiss him she did.

Molly pulled away, having thoroughly and rather expertly kissed him as wonderfully as any woman could have wished. Sherlock blinked at her, confused, and feeling slightly guilty that it hadn't been unpleasant. So very different from what he was used to that he catalogued the experience, filing it away automatically, and wondering why he was staring at her like she had told him she'd met someone smarter than him.

"I won't say I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm not." She whispered, stepping back from him. She looked down at her hands, fingers twirling her ring. "I need to go talk to Tom. He can be jealous about something tangible now, I guess. I'll understand if you're not here when I get back. And you tell John I did that, too. Or I can, if you prefer. I just had to do that at least once in my lifetime before I die."

Molly's fingers brushed his curls from his eyes, as he tried to learn how to think past his confusion. She pulled off her lab coat, and picked up her things, pausing briefly at the lab door before walking out. He would remember the look on her face for the rest of his life.

The doors swung shut behind her as she left, leaving him alone in the pathology lab. Sherlock stared at the doors, wondering what had just happened, and why he felt so very sad about it all.


	40. In The Shadows

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.**

**WARNING: SEX. Have fun.**

**Enjoy! Review!**

* * *

**Chapter Forty**

"_**In the Shadows"**_

"I'm up for committing a felony, John." Violet told the doctor walking at her side. It was bright and sunny and every surface was soaking wet, the snow melting fast.

"Haven't you been doing that all day?" John quipped, and she smirked. She certainly had been.

"Ssshhhhh! That's a secret!" Violet called for a cab with her mobile cab app, and they waited out in front of St Bart's. "I should have told you I was a barista or something bland, now you can't get enough of my sexy-hacker-awesomeness."

"Is that even a word?" John asked, his eyes checking the corners of the square, the street to either side of them. He was paying attention to her, but also looking for bad guys. What a man. Sherlock was one lucky guy.

"Nope, just made it up, all me." Violet sighed in relief as she saw the cab approaching. "Or if it is, I'm still calling dibs on it."

She loved her app, all the major metropolitan city cab services around the world were picking it up. Every time one did, and people used the app, she got a tiny itty-bitty percentage of the fare as a service fee. And not to mention the money she made when people purchased the app. She was making a killing every day just by thinking up lines of code. And it wasn't her only app, just the most successful legal one. Violet restrained her glee at remembering John's face when she gave him that brown paper sack of money last month. His face had been priceless. She wasn't the wealthiest person in the world, but she never had to work another day in her life if she so choose.

"So where, too?" Asked the cabbie as they hopped in the back.

"Winchester Luxury Car Sales, please." Violet told him, not responding to John's quiet groan of disbelief. She tossed him a smile, and said nothing more as the cab pulled out from Bart's.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and started to check the dealer's website for the car she wanted. It was there, and she hid her mobile so John wouldn't see. She was going to have some serious fun. Usually she'd just have the cabbies drop her off a couple of blocks from the rear storage lot of the luxury retailers, disable security, and take a car out for the day without any one being the wiser. Depending on her mood and what she was doing, she'd either return the car, or dump it. But seeing as how they were on their way to save the sanity of one very cabin-fever stricken assassin who was carrying John's baby, she thought it best not to risk getting caught. But that didn't mean she had to tell John what she was doing. And having him show up in a really good mood might be better than the usually tense and disillusioned attitude he had on these visits.

The cab dropped them off in front of Winchester Luxury, a grand building with a glass and steel three story lobby filled with cars usually only seen in spy movies and high speed action flicks. She pulled out her mobile as John was sweet enough to pay the cabbie, and accessed her accounts, and the dealer's website. She had her transaction complete before John walked to her side, staring up at the daunting building full of dream cars.

"So, John, what's your dream car?" Violet asked, roping her arm through his, walking to the doors. She already knew the answer. He had a magazine that he kept next to his armchair, the page with the car so well worn it was almost falling out.

"Um, wow. Easy, that one over there." John pointed to the sexy black Audi R8 V10 that just screamed horsepower where it crouched in the center of the lobby. He held the door for her, and she let him go, heading unerringly for the car, leaving her behind. She didn't mind, letting him look his fill.

Violet caught the eye of a smartly dressed salesman, pulling him over with a flirty smile. He came over so fast he must have smelled the money in her accounts from across the room.

"Hello, miss, how may I help you today?" The salesman asked, his smile oozing charm, attitude all about thinking she was a mark. Too bad for him. She'd run circles around him all day.

"I'm here to pick up the Audi. It's my uncle's birthday. He's the doctor salivating all over the car there across the room." Violet murmured, grabbing the salesman's arm, and navigating him to the offices in the back. John didn't even notice, so engrossed was he in the car. "My name is Violet Hunter, I ordered the car just a few minutes ago."

She pulled out her ID, and a cotton and linen blend business card that had her account information embossed on the surface.

"The Audi, miss? The R8?" The disbelief in his voice clear despite his attempt to hide it. He looked down at her cards, then back up to her face.

"Yes, that one. I believe you have an invoice waiting in your Inbox, do be a dear and get me the keys." Violet smiled, and winked at him. "And the faster we move this along, the bigger commission you make."

Violet gently nudged the salesman towards the offices, waving her fingers at him to get moving. He gave her a look that was part disbelief and surprise, and epic amounts of curiosity. He went, calling for someone she assumed was a secretary, heading to the back rooms.

Violet meandered over to John, smiling at the fanboy awe on his face. He was already in love. He was so cute, hands held behind his back, like a kid told not to touch anything in an antique shop. He was oohing and aahing as he walked slowly around it. He went to touch the hood of the car, before snapping his fingers back. Violet laughed, and came up next to him, bumping his shoulder with her own.

"John, you're adorable. And you're my uncle, okay? I didn't feel like explaining that you're my uncle's lover to Mr. Salesman." Violet told him, watching the back offices, wondering how long it would take the salesman to verify her accounts, her ID and the fully purchased she already bought-it-while-she-was walking-in-the-front-door luxury car. "If I hadn't, you'd be getting winks and high fives for dating me."

"What? Okay, but why would you tell him…. What did you do?" John snapped up, getting a nervous look on his face, eyes dancing between her face and the car he was clearly in love with.

"Just play along." Violet roped her arm through his again, snuggled in when she saw the salesman come back out, a huge, cloying, sickly sweet smile on his face, followed by a secretary and what must be his manager. All of them smiles and she grinned herself when she saw the shiny keys held in the boss man's hands, the stacks of paperwork in the secretary's.

"Miss Hunter, I presume? And this must be your uncle! Happy birthday sir, you have a lovely niece for her to buy you such a gift." The manager shook their hands, Violet not paying attention at all to his name, and she let John be distracted by the fact he now had the car keys in his hand.

She signed all the paperwork, collected her ID, and very discretely handed over a few tightly stacked clips of money to her new best buddy at the dealership. Best not to let John know she walked around with so much money, he'd probably never let her out of the flat. She stuffed her copies in her bag, reminding herself to pay off all the taxes on it for the next few years, get the title sorted out. It was already in his name, he just needed to sign it.

John just stood there in shock as some attendants opened the lobby up, using the cleverly hidden doors to the outside that let the cars be displayed in the large room.

Violet managed to offer up her thanks without letting slip her impatience, and waved off the sales crew. John was standing next to the driver's side door, staring at the keys in his hand.

"John!" Violet nearly had to shout to get him to look up.

"What….. Christ, Violet! Did you just steal a car?" John whispered to her loudly over the roof of the car. She grinned at him, and opened the passenger side door.

"Nope, I bought it. Straight up. Happy birthday, John Watson." Violet slid in the car, and reached across the seats, opening the door for him, as he was very much in shock. She bumped the door on his hip, waking him from his daze. He got in, pulling the door shut carefully.

"Okay, seat belts." Violet instructed the poor man she'd shocked into a walking coma. She put her belt on, watching him. She was hoping he would be able to drive, she figured he might want to be the first one to drive his present.

He put his seatbelt on, and stared at her. "Okay, put key in the ignition, turn it on."

John did so, super slow, as if he might break something. The engine roared to life, the vibrations subtle and strong all at once, pure power shivering their bones. John put his hands on the wheel, and looked at her as if he needed to be told what to do next.

"John, I should have asked, you can drive stick, right?" Violet needled his male ego just a bit, trying to wake him up. It worked, and John Watson snapped from his daze. He gave her a grin that looked like it belonged on a teenager, full of mischief and pure excitement.

She slammed back against the seat as John put the car in gear, roaring out of the dealership, onto the streets of London. He handled it like he was born driving the car, one smooth machine action all the way through downtown. She laughed, enjoying the speed, glad she could do something for John. He had welcomed her into his life and home, and treated her like she was family.

Sherlock and John were her family. What else was she going to spend her money on? Shoes? Never mind John's birthday wasn't for another month. Sherlock was on notice, now. He better sweep John off his feet.

She figured they'd tool around for a bit, then go see about saving Mary from her doldrums. Violet pulled out her laptop, and began playing merry hob with the CCTV cameras around Leinster Gardens.

* * *

Mary knew she was being foolish, but she had to get out. She threw on the long black coat that was reminiscent of Sherlock's, but hers had a hood. She pulled her dark red scarf up over her chin, the hood up over her hair, and buttoned up the coat. She had her nine mil under her shirt, tucked into her waistband, and the slit she'd cut in the coat pocket would let her draw easily and quickly.

She palmed the keys, and stepped out of 23-24 Leinster Gardens for the first time in weeks. She squinted against the sunlight, the weak winter sun bright on her eyes. She breathed in deep, the cold air searing and invigorating. Mary pulled the door shut, and walked. She picked a random direction, and went. No thought of where to go, what to do, she just needed to move. It felt weird, walking farther than a few feet, not needing to stop and turn. Being able to see in the distance, see more than bare concrete walls and iron pipes, hear something other than the rumble of the Underground.

She wanted to run, she was so happy to be free. There was a park nearby if memory served, and she headed in that direction. There was no one around, it being the middle of the workday, kids in school. The trees were barren and covered with tiny patches of snow, the grass was a dull wet brown, but she didn't mind. Mary skipped to a bench on one of the paths, overlooking a fountain that had been turned off for the season. She sat, and stretched out her booted feet, leaning back on the bench.

The fountain was a cute one, concrete children playing in the empty basin, toys and a stone puppy in the mix as well. Mary smiled at the statues, and she imagined this place as it would be in the spring. How it would be in mid-summer. She was due in the summer, late July sometime, she wasn't entirely sure.

Mary saw a flash, a dream. She was pulled away from the dead park, to a place full of warm sun and sweet breezes. The park was alive and green, flowers and trees in full summer colors. She heard the sound of laughter, children giggling. There was a young child, a tiny toddler, walking with her little hand securely grasped in her parent's. She had blonde curls so light her hair was nearly white, bouncy and adorned with a red ribbon. Pale cheeks, rosy red lips, and her eyes were a deep, wise blue. Like her father's. She took her first steps under the kind and proud eyes of her father, who was holding her hand as she walked down the path to the fountain.

Her dream child giggled as she walked to the tall dark haired man beckoning to her from where he crouched on his knees, holding out a soft toy as incentive. She made it, and giggled, grabbing the toy. Her daddy picked her up, giving her kisses on her plump little cheek, and she reached out for the man she had walked to, who swooped her above their heads, making her giggle some more.

Mary watched, broken hearted and in love with a dream, as her yet to be born child was hugged by John and Sherlock, loved beyond all measure of words. They walked off together, laughing, happy. A family. Safe and alive, fully realized.

Mary battled her subconscious, but she saw the truth in this daydream. The truth that no matter how much she may already love the life growing in her, she would not be around to see it flourish. She would survive to bear this little miracle, but then she must go. She was dangerous. She killed with ease, hated fiercely, acted quickly from a place of anger and pain. Too many people wanted her dead, or behind bars.

Mary made herself a promise, sitting on the bench in the winter stricken park. That no matter what happened, she would make it, live long enough to have this baby. And she would give her child to John. She knew full well that regardless of how he felt about his child's mother, he would love the baby they had made. John would cherish and adore, nurture and protect his son or daughter. She would leave, to keep them all safe. From herself, and the people who would never stop hunting her.

Mary wrapped her arms over her stomach, hugging herself. She shut her eyes tight, and dropped her face deeper into her scarf, letting the fabric absorb her tears. She let the dream go, returning to the barren reality of her prison. Mary cried, saying goodbye in her heart to this child she had yet to meet, but whom she already loved so very much.

She sat there for nearly an hour, before getting up, and walking back to Leinster Gardens, head down, hands in her pockets, untroubled by the cold winter winds. She would endure her prison willingly now, for seven more months if she must.

* * *

The afternoon light was grey and dreadful, invoking a depressive atmosphere across the city.

Sherlock strode out of the front door of Bart's, eschewing a cab in favor of walking. Baker Street wasn't far by cab, but he wanted the walk to help with thinking. He had the evidence in his pockets, and he would finish his analysis at home.

Molly hadn't returned to Bart's, presumably still dealing with her fiancé, whatever his name was. Sherlock had doubted she would return at all that day, so he had done what work he could, before leaving. John had sent him a text not long ago, something about wanting to go driving without Violet and Mary, but not elaborating. The text had made no sense whatsoever. John hadn't been in trouble, so Sherlock decided to just go home.

He flipped up his collar against the wind, the day getting colder from the cheery dawn they'd had that morning. Rain looked to be on its way, but he might have the time to get home before it started. He hunkered down in his coat, eyes sweeping the street in front of him, watching and evaluating the people he passed on the streets.

Sherlock saw them all. The widower stealing his children's inheritance, the banker in love with his married partner, the old lady with too many cats. Everyone he saw was nothing but a long list of deductions, some of them so smothered by them he had to look away. For all of his waking memory, Sherlock knew more than he ever wanted to, more than the average person could handle knowing. He saw the truths carefully hidden in the lies, the lies buried under the truth. He saw everything.

Sherlock ignored the droplets falling, eyes on the street in front of him. A chill wind was blowing, driving the fresh rain down the nape of his neck, under his collar. He felt the cold, and dismissed it, unbothered by it. It was just water and cold air, precipitation and weather. Nothing he could change, nor should he if he could.

He had gotten a lesson in what he could and could not change earlier, when Molly found her courage, and kissed him in the lab. Her kiss had been a new, foreign experience, one he had never sought before. Molly loved him, she was_ in love with him._ And so she kissed him because she wanted the experience, a memory to have. And to his shock, he hadn't found it distasteful, or unpleasant. Once he had gotten past his confusion, Sherlock had sat on the stool for quite a while, staring at the doors, thinking. Why did he not dislike the kiss? He had no answer for that. None at all.

He knew he loved John, loved John to the exclusion of all others. But he also knew that he cared for Molly, more than he cared for anyone else who wasn't John, Mrs. Hudson or family. He had called what he felt for her love before, and he knew of no other word to name the emotion she generated in him. Sherlock was at a loss, pure and simple, and had no idea what to do about it. He didn't know what to do with what he was feeling, and the walking wasn't helping. He would usually talk out his problems with John, and have the solution come to him with its usual invigorating epiphany of brilliance.

Sherlock felt a warm rush of excitement creep out from his bones at the thought of John, his doctor's strong arms holding him tightly, firm lips kissing his, nibbling on his neck. And just as quickly, Sherlock stopped walking, so abruptly he almost tripped himself. How could he talk this out with John, when the topic was kissing Molly and how it made him feel? Sherlock didn't know much about relationships, but he figured kissing someone you weren't involved with was one of those bad things that made people fight. Would John be mad at him, what would he do? Was he supposed to tell John about the kiss? Molly had told him to, but Sherlock felt a nagging sense of fear that John would leave him if he did, abandon him in disappointment and hurt.

Sherlock stood in the falling rain, cold to the bone, oblivious to the rain falling from his curls, in his eyes.

_Oh John, what did I do?_

The sky darkened above him, unseen. The winds howled through the streets of London, driving the rain before it, stinging and frigid as it pummeled the detective. Sherlock bore up under the elements, eventually continuing on his way home.

* * *

John parked the R8 in the alley behind 221B Baker Street, turning off the intoxicating car Violet had given him. He didn't know what had possessed her to buy it for him. She said it was a birthday present, and it was one hell of a present. He was well aware of how much this car cost, and a very big part of him was telling him to take it back. That no matter how much money she had, her spending that much on him was too much. He had said as much to her after they left Mary at Leinster Gardens, but she had shot it down with a look that reminded him very strongly of Sherlock at his worst. So he would graciously accept it until he could get away with either keeping it guilt free, or he'd donate it or something.

Violet hopped out the car, running for Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door, wiping her feet before running inside. She was going to pack an overnight bag, something about Anthea inviting her over for dinner at Mycroft's. John had a feeling that it was a private dinner, and not with Mycroft. Anthea was sending a car with an armed guard, so John was okay with Violet leaving without him.

Their visit to Mary earlier had been different. She had welcomed them in, apologizing for her text to Violet that had prompted their arrival. Via a dealership, but still. She had eaten the takeaway Violet and he had stopped for, talking to them without a hint of bitterness or anger he had gotten so used to in the last few weeks. Mary had been acting like she used to be, before Sherlock's Return. When she had been nothing but a good woman, one he loved and liked. He hadn't known how to act at first, afraid he was seeing things. But she had seemed different.

John felt bad for her forced solitary confinement, he really did. But every time he thought about finding her a different place to hide, he was crippled by fear that it wouldn't be as secure as the place she was now, that she would be found. Found, hurt, captured, or killed.

John had a feeling that Mary was trying to come to terms with who she really was, with her options of a future. John was trying to reconcile the same thing, really. How was Mary going to raise a baby fighting off shady government agencies? How could she kept herself and a baby safe? And where would she raise a baby? John refused to let his child be raised in a place like Leinster Gardens, a concrete hole in the wall. Refused to let his child's mother be condemned to a life in the shadows.

John refused to entertain the thought of separating mother and child. To him, that was close to sacrilege. He had no delusions about modern society, and he believed that a man could raise a baby just as well as woman. But Mary was a powerful, vibrant, intelligent woman, and aside from the whole assassin thing, he would want a child of his to be like her. She would be a good mother, fierce and deadly as a momma bear, as caring as any doting Madonna archetype.

John sighed loudly, watching the rain pour down hard over the windshield. He opened the door and got out, locking the car behind him as he ran for the door, rain running over him. He just wanted to get inside, hug his detective, and sit in front of the fire.

John got in, feeling bad about the water he was dropping over Mrs. Hudson's clean floor, running through her flat to the stairs. He took them two at a time, noting they were exceptionally wet. Someone soaking wet must have taken the stairs. He walked in the flat, and stopped next to a very still Violet.

Violet and John stared at Sherlock, who was standing next to his chair, dripping wet and paler than he usually was. He was still in his coat, scarf soaked and drooping. He wasn't really 'there', having that aura about him he would get when deep in his mind palace. He was absent, unblinking, eyes fixed and blind. John shivered, a chill coming from his heart, and not his clothing.

"Hey, I'll take care of Sherlock, go get ready for your sleepover." John gently touched Violet's shoulder, snapping her out of her surprise at seeing Sherlock like that. "Anthea's car will be here soon."

"Are you sure?" Violet whispered, a worried expression on her pretty Holmes' features.

"Yeah, I've seen worse. He'll be fine." John shooed her upstairs, and she went, looking over her shoulder as she took the stairs to her room.

John waited on Violet to pack, grabbing her toiletries from the bathroom, and kissing him on the cheek when her mobile vibrated. Anthea's car was here, and Violet left, torn between wanting to stay with her uncle, and going to see her girl. He shut and locked the flat doors, so that no one could just wander in while Sherlock was like this.

John was alone at last with Sherlock, the building quiet and still. John shrugged out of his coat and winter gear, and carefully approached Sherlock. His detective would sometimes get caught up in his mind palace, so deep that he would forget the passage of time, and stay far longer than he should. John had a feeling that something had prompted Sherlock to overstay in his palace, and had lost his way back.

John very gently tugged the coat off of Sherlock, hanging it over the hook on the door. The scarf and gloves came next, John putting them away before returning to Sherlock. John undid the suit jacket and cuff links, pulling off Sherlock's damp jacket, tossing it on the desk. Sherlock had yet to react, and John was getting worried. Whatever it was that did this to Sherlock must have been serious. John had no worries that Sherlock would react badly to his ministrations. Now, if someone else were to try this, they would get a very nasty and brutal surprise. John had seen Sherlock react violently at being awoken from his palace.

A murder suspect just the week before had poked Sherlock while he was in his palace, calling up information on the velocity of certain caliber bullets in relation to objects they were passing through, all in connection to proving whether or not the suspect had killed his wife. He had, and he had also gotten a bloody nose for touching Sherlock. Everyone learned on real quick not to touch Sherlock Holmes unless you were John Watson.

John bent down, and started a fire in the hearth. Sherlock was cold, and his hair was damp. He fed the fire, and got up to get a towel from the bathroom. Sherlock was as he left him once he got back, and John gently took him by his shoulders, and maneuvered him to sit in his leather armchair. Sherlock went easily, cooperating with John. The doctor took this as a good sign, that Sherlock wasn't too deep.

John moved behind him, and started drying his love's wet hair. He figured talking would do the trick, tempt him to come back on his own.

"So, I had an interesting day. We went to see Mary, who was actually in a good mood, of sorts. She seemed sad, but happy. Weird, right? Usually we haven't a thing to say to each other, but we actually talked. Not about much, but it got me thinking. I'm going to be a father. Me. A dad. Do you know I never dared to hope for such a thing?"

"I never thought I'd find myself having a family, at all. I always thought of family as something someone else did, not me. When you were….gone…. I tried to be happy with Mary, and the idea of settling down. Considering how old I am, I never thought that hard about kids. Guess I should have, seeing as how the whole baby thing wasn't planned. But I can't be unhappy with the way things have worked out. You came back to life, brought me back with you, and I have you in my heart, my home, my bed. I have you, I'm going to be a dad, and no matter how crazy this life may be, I've never been happier."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back slightly. John smiled, and kept it up, and figured he might as well take advantage of Sherlock listening.

"Well, before we went to see Mary, your darling niece got me a birthday present. I was properly shocked when she bought me a car, an Audi R8 V10. You have any idea how much those things retail for? It's parked out in the back alley. I'm still in shock. Feel like I'm going to wake up, and it was some cosmic joke. I don't think I'll keep it, feel bad about her spending that kind of money. But damn, is it hotter than hell to drive."

Sherlock tipped his head back, and John took away the towel. He smiled down at Sherlock, his soft black curls dry and springy. John leaned down, and lightly kissed his love on his upside down lips. He stood up quickly though, as Sherlock flinched.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He asked, coming around to the front of Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock met his eyes, and John was floored by the look on his detective's face. John had no other word for it but afraid.

"Love? What's wrong?" John reached out a hand, and cupped Sherlock's face. "Did you learn something about the case?"

Sherlock shook his head, a tiny movement. John stroked his fine marble cheek with his thumb, and moved closer. He was standing between Sherlock's knees, against the chair.

"Tell me, please." John asked his love, worried. Sherlock never hesitated to tell him anything, unless he was worried about how John would take it. But then he usually went glacial, and blunt. This Sherlock was timid, fearful.

"Molly kissed me." Sherlock blurted out, and he pressed his lips together, as if he couldn't believe he said those words. "And I didn't not like it."

John stopped thinking. He breathed and felt, but he, John, stopped. Molly kissed Sherlock, and he didn't not like it? Did that mean he liked it? Did Sherlock kiss her back?

John didn't realize he'd asked that last question out loud until he saw Sherlock shaking his head vehemently.

"No, I didn't. She kissed me, and I didn't stop her. I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, and he looked like a child stripped of privileges and sent to bed for not being loveable enough.

John exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding, and grabbed his armchair, dragging it closer to Sherlock. John sat down, knees to Sherlock's, and tugged his detective's hand into his.

"Okay, tell me." John ordered, not unkindly.

"I really don't understand anything, John." Sherlock said, half plea, half whine, all misery.

"Just tell me what happened."

"I….. Offered to leave. To leave her alone." Sherlock said, his diamond eyes clinging to John's, unblinking. The fire was casting half his face in shadow, but John could see his luminous eyes clearly enough. "Since she couldn't stop loving me."

"Okay." John was surprised by that, Sherlock knowing enough, caring enough, to make that offer. A very mature, and eventually kind thing to do.

"She said no. Very firmly." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "She cried for a bit more, after you two left the lab. Then she kissed me."

"Okay. I'm not surprised, really. I know she's loved you for years." John told Sherlock, no anger or judgment in his voice. Poor Sherlock, he was so lost. He wasn't mad at Sherlock. He didn't know how he felt about Molly.

"She said that she wanted to do that once before she died." Sherlock gasped out, his voice making it clear he was conflicted. He paused, and seemed even more nervous now.

"I think I liked it." Sherlock was horrified, and he ducked his head, looking at their joined hands.

"Oh." John breathed, and he felt a little off balance. "She's very pretty, and you care about her. I'm not shocked that it would be a nice kiss."

"But I love you!" Sherlock said, the force of his words making John jump, before he forced himself to relax.

"I know you do. Tell me what's got you so bothered, love. Please." John begged Sherlock, gripping his hands tight. A kiss was close to breaking down Sherlock, and John was beyond worried now.

"How can I love you, and kiss you, and like her kiss, do I love her too?" Sherlock was babbling, and John took a minute to unravel the confused question. Sherlock was a tumbled mess of utter confusion, fear, and nerves. John hadn't seen him this off kilter since Baskerville. He wasn't as terrified, and he wasn't angry, but he was thoroughly messed up.

John sat and thought. He knew without any hesitation in his heart and soul that Sherlock loved him. That he need never fear that Sherlock would go astray, cheat on him, break his heart with another man or woman. That he had the most intensely human man for a lover and friend, who carried so many imperfections and skewed realizations along with him. He had so much knowledge and skill, yet he had sacrificed the larger realities of human interactions, the subtlety of the unspoken communications and implied meanings to be what he was. There was so much that Sherlock saw, but a good chunk of it was beyond his experience.

"You love me, and you kiss me." John said, holding Sherlock's eyes, not letting his love look away. "But she kissed you, and you liked it, and you're worried you're in love with her too?"

"I…. Yes." Sherlock sighed deeply, and finally relaxed all the way, slouching in his chair. John gave him a tiny smile, did his best to help Sherlock through this tricky maze. He was no expert by any means, so it was almost a case of the blind leading the blind.

"Are you in love with me, Sherlock?" John asked, keeping it simple.

"Yes, don't be silly." Sherlock said, and John grinned at that snip, glad Sherlock was coming back from the ledge.

"Okay, do this for me. Close your eyes." John ordered his detective. Sherlock gave him a funny look, but did it.

"Now I want you, Sherlock Holmes, the most analytical human in the world, to go over every single thing you know and feel about me in your head. Go through every instant of our lives together, and remember. Think about how it all makes you feel, why it makes you feel that way, what those feelings do to you. Take your time, and be thorough."

John waited, and watched. He could tell when Sherlock stopped humoring him, and actually did what he asked. His face, while usually so hard to read, was as clear and decipherable as a book open in front of him. John could almost recognize the memories, the moments in time that Sherlock recalled, just by the emotions that raced across his face.

John saw in Sherlock the first day they met, when Sherlock both awed and annoyed him. A night of racing through London's streets, and Sherlock showing John the strength of the human mind, helping him to conquer his body and that damnable limp. The shot that sealed their friendship, and the laughter that followed.

John could see when Sherlock got to the night he was kidnapped by the Tong, and nearly killed. He saw the bombings, the strain of having cases thrown at him on a timer, and the steadfast faith and support John gave him throughout those couple of days.

John was with him when he got to the night at the pool, the night that John saw that Sherlock did indeed have a heart, and that he had a claim on it. John found himself reliving that night with Sherlock, the scorching scent of the chlorine, the damp air, and Moriarty threatening to end them all. The hurt and fear, the momentary flash of doubt in Sherlock's eyes when Moriarty made John repeat after him. The joy and enormous relief when Moriarty let them go, and Sherlock tore off the vest.

John was with Sherlock when his love met The Woman. John saw the obsession, the attraction, and a small part of him had to recognize that Sherlock may have indeed loved Irene Alder, after a fashion. He felt that like a sharp jab to his heart, but it faded away, as Sherlock moved on.

John watched as Sherlock relived Baskerville, and his first confrontation with real terror. He gripped Sherlock's hands tightly, feeling that fear with him. And the first time that Sherlock admitted how he felt about John. That he didn't have friends. He had only the one, and it was John. Only John.

John wanted to weep at the frustration, the grief, and fear on Sherlock's face as his love recalled the events prior to his Fall. John saw to his determination to protect his friends, the people in his life he cared about. His determination to protect John.

John felt his own love rise up in him in response to the love and awe on Sherlock's face, as his detective confronted and embraced the sacrifice he had to make to save John. And John knew without any doubt in his heart and soul that his love really was a hero, and the truest kind, the kind that shrugged off the title, and kept going on no matter what.

He waited, and he was so very thankful and overjoyed when Sherlock got to his return. He had to forgive himself for slugging Sherlock so hard when his detective came back, but the first few days together afterwards were indelibly imprinted in John's mind, heart and body. He relived telling Sherlock he loved him for the first time all over again, and had to bite his tongue to keep from saying it now, and distracting Sherlock.

John felt the fear and frustration of dealing with Jamie Moriarty. The endless days of tears and hollow hearts, grief swallowing them whole. The pain of separation, fear that they would die. And the love and overwhelming joy of reunion.

John was helpless to his own heart. He gave in to it, and let the love and joy sweep out from every corner of his being. Sherlock. His Sherlock. Here, home, his. John waited quietly, knowing Sherlock couldn't do anything less than perfection in any task placed before him. So it was with infinite patience that John waited for Sherlock to open his eyes.

John met the heavenly eyes of his true love, and smiled at him.

"No talking. Just listen. I want you to hold onto the feeling you have right now, the one for me, and compare it, in depth, to what you feel for Molly." John told him, fearlessly. He knew without any doubt what the result would be. "Close your eyes, and tell me when you're done. Take your time."

The time Sherlock was away was shorter, the emotions not as intense. He got a tiny scowl on his face, and he sighed. He was thinking hard, and John stifled a gentle laugh at how endearingly wonderful his man was. It was a mere heartbeat of time that he was away. Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked at John.

"I'm done." Sherlock said, willing to keep following directions. John gave him that smile he never gave another living soul, and tugged Sherlock forward. Their faces were inches apart.

"Now tell me what you've just learned." John whispered. He wanted nothing more than to kiss Sherlock right now. He knew exactly what Sherlock was going to say, and he was rewarded well for his faith.

"I love Molly, but not like I love you. She's a friend, nothing more. Her kiss was nice, but only because I do care about her. I wouldn't have felt anything if she had been a complete stranger, or someone I had an aversion to." Sherlock stated, confident in his reasoning. John nodded, encouraging him to keep going. "I don't want her. I want you. I need you."

"I love you, John Watson. _I am in love with you._ Deeply, irreversibly, forever engraved across my psyche in love with you. John- you make me, complete me, tear me down and rebuild me. I am not Sherlock Holmes without John Watson." Sherlock was so close to him now, lips brushing his. John felt as if the fire had escaped the hearth, and was burning merrily inside of him. "When I kiss you, when I touch you, there are no human words to describe the sensations, the emotions. You are a force of nature and divine epiphany all in one."

"Show me." John begged, undone. Their breath mingled, Sherlock's curls brushing across his face, shivers of heat and lust building, cresting inside of his gut, snapping like static in the dry winter air. "Show me how you feel, Sherlock."

It was a kiss so slow and wonderful that John felt like he had left time behind, and was living in an eternal moment. Sherlock's lips were firm and gentle, moist and warm. John's eyes drifted shut, and he brought at hand to Sherlock's jaw. His detective pressed closer, his hands wrapping around the back of his doctor's neck.

John brought up his free hand, and snagged Sherlock's shirt collar. He kept their lips together, and leaned back, pulling Sherlock from his chair. Sherlock came willingly, and straddled John's hips in his red chair, resting in his lap. John put his hands on the other man's waist, his detective wrapping an arm around his shoulders, one hand behind his head.

John groaned softly as Sherlock deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping in his mouth, touching his tongue before flitting away. Sherlock's weight on him was pleasant, grounding him as his heart threatened to fly free from his chest. John kissed him back, their tongues dancing, touching, and teasing in light easy strokes. Air was unnecessary, their bodies thriving off the other, feeding the flames between them on the chair, an inferno building in the deep.

John tugged Sherlock's shirt free from his waistband, fingers gliding lovingly over smooth, pale skin, lean tight muscles. Sherlock shivered, moaning softly in John's mouth. The kiss went deeper, pressure harder, John growling deep in his chest. Sherlock lifted his face, wet lips glistening in the light from the fire, eyes as vibrant as jewels.

"John." Sherlock brushed his lips over the doctor's, pulling back just enough to keep John from capturing his mouth.

"Yes?" John gasped out, the word nothing but a wisp of air. He wanted nothing more than to keep kissing his love, his gaze fixed on those delicious lips so close to his.

"Bedroom." Sherlock said, and slipped off his lap before he could protest. Sherlock caught one of his hands, tugging him to his feet.

Sherlock walked backwards down the hall, pulling John in for a quick wet kiss before backing away again. His eyes were glowing, lips plump from their kisses, hands flirting across his torso in light strokes and caresses. Tempting him, beguiling him, Sherlock seduced him down the hall, opening the bedroom door wide with his shoulders as he pulled John over the threshold.

"I'm going to show you, John." Sherlock's voice came out from the darkness, disembodied and deep, overwhelmingly sexy.

The room was cast in shadows, and Sherlock shut the door, throwing the lock. John tried to reach for him, pull him in, but Sherlock kept just out of reach. He moved behind John, hands warm and heavy on his shoulders, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of John's neck. His breath moved the short blonde strands, and goose bumps rose up all over John's body in response. Sherlock moved in the shadows, soundless as a ghost. He glided in the darkness to John's front, clever fingers racing lightly across his chest, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

John went to help, but Sherlock pulled away, and he got the hint. He dropped his arms, and let Sherlock touch him as he wanted. His fingers came back, and undid John's shirt, tugging the fabric back away from his chest and shoulders. It fell to the floor, a wisp of movement in the quiet room. John resisted the urge to close his eyes, wanting to see everything he could.

He whimpered when Sherlock's lips touched his collar bone. Little, tender kisses along his left shoulder, to the scar that graced him even now, years after the shot that ended his military career. It was faded, and slightly rough, but Sherlock kissed it, tongue tracing the lines and dips carefully. He let his head fall back, eyes shutting, and Sherlock put his hands to his waistband. Long fingers opened his fly, tugged off his belt, and with sublime grace, unzipped his trousers.

Sherlock split John's attention, his mind and body focused on his lips and tongue on his shoulder, and his fingers dipping through fabric to touch his erection as it strained to get free. Sherlock loosened his trousers, and kissed his way down John's chest. John gasped loudly, and it took everything he had not to reach out, to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair as his love kissed his way further south, his teeth nipping lightly on his stomach. He curled his hands into fists, shaking in need as Sherlock pulled his trousers and underwear off his hips, down past his thighs.

Sherlock knelt at his feet, and John trembled, thoughts running dark and hot with lust. Sherlock helped him out of his boots, his socks, and he stepped out of his clothing, totally naked in front of his lover. His erection was hard and full, and John was panting in need as Sherlock brought his face to rest on John's hip. He rubbed his lips over the muscular thigh of his doctor, licking and nibbling his way to John's groin.

When Sherlock finally took him in his mouth, wet and tight over the head of his cock, John lifted his hands, crying out. He buried his hands in his own hair, digging in his scalp to keep his hands from reaching for his lover. Sherlock hummed in approval, and took him deeper. His mouth was wet, and so hot, liquid fire burning him as Sherlock slowly engulfed him. Took him as deep as he could go, nudging the back of his throat. Sherlock swallowed around him, and John swore and cried all at once, tears of joy and need springing to his eyes. His tongue writhed under his cock, licking in the wet paradise of his mouth as he pulled away, lips tight.

John was sobbing quietly, body jerking as Sherlock freed him inch by inch, the air cool on his cock as the moist skin was exposed. His tongue lapped at the head, following the ridges, humming happily when he tasted the sweet salty drops leaking out.

John was destroyed, happily surrendering his mind to the delicious chaos Sherlock was brewing with his mouth and hands. He sobbed, hearing his own cries echo in the bedroom, and he quaked in joy as Sherlock took him deep again. Each swallow, lick, breath of air past his cock knocked down a piece of John's soul, evaporating the man, leaving nothing but love and lust. Cool invigorating air fueled the inferno raging in his chest, the fire beast named lust roaring to be released.

Time disappeared. The universe dissolved, flying into pieces, just the two of them in this endless instant. There was nothing more wonderful and real than the man at his feet, the man he loved with every fiber of his being, who was doing impossible things to his heart and body, with wet mouth and clever hands. Again and again his detective upended the world under his feet, tipped the sun on its side, and rearranged the heavens. John found himself in love to a degree and capacity he knew was beyond mortal limits.

Sherlock showed John just how much he loved him, kneeling in front of the man he worshipped above all others, hands holding his love, giving pleasure so selflessly. Each stroke drove John to an edge, and he was crying out, Sherlock in total command of his body. John was gone. He was a rioting storm of sensation. Sherlock increased his pace, sucking harder, lips tighter, pulling him as deep as he could, and with one last swallow, Sherlock pushed John off the brink.

His orgasm ripped itself free from his chest, his full throated shout of joy and release loud in the silent room. He came, and Sherlock groaned around his cock, swallowing the think jets of cum, the liquid hot and searing, delicious. He swallowed every drop, the salty and heavy taste of John filling his senses.

John screamed, and his hands finally acted of their own accord, coming down to hold Sherlock's head tightly to his groin. He jerked, and Sherlock stilled, letting the waves roll over his love, being so careful in this highly sensitized moment. He pulled back, as John finished, sucking away traces of his orgasm as he did.

Sherlock rested his head in John's hands, his fingers cool on his hot face. John stroked his fingers over chiseled cheekbones, wet from tears he hadn't noticed Sherlock shedding.

John wavered on his feet, and Sherlock stood slowly, as he had no more strength in his legs than John did. He put an arm around John's waist, and picked him up, dropping them both on the bed, bouncing together once before subsiding.

John came back to reality slowly, resting on Sherlock's chest. His detective was still dressed, arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, holding him securely.

John moved his head, barely able to do even that, so tranquil he had trouble finding his muscles, much less telling them to work. He met Sherlock's eyes, bright in the shadows. They stared at each other, blinking slowly, eyes heavy and both of them radiating contentment.

"I….. " John gasped out, doing his best to stay awake. "Wow."

Sherlock laughed, his deep voice rumbling under John's ear. He hugged his doctor tighter, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I love you." Sherlock whispered, and John felt those words as if hearing them for the first time. "I am nothing, nothing but my love for you."

"Sherlock…." John sought his love's lips, kissing him. He tasted traces of himself on Sherlock's lips, and was pleasantly surprised to feel a lick of heat flash in his core. Only this man. He was addicting. "I love you, forever. I will always love you."

* * *

Sherlock left John sleeping in their bed, his doctor buried under the covers. They'd dozed for a while, before John fell so deeply asleep he didn't stir when Sherlock maneuvered him under the blankets. He gazed down at the man he loved, a smug smile on his lips.

He left the room, closing the door so it was only open a few inches. John had a habit of waking up if he couldn't hear Sherlock through the door if he wasn't in bed with him. As if he feared Sherlock would disappear if he lost track of him. Sherlock sympathized. John had been taken from him before, and that terror he felt when Moriarty took John would never really leave him.

He went to the kitchen, and frowned at the remains of the table. He hadn't really been thinking things through when he tried out the 'smokeless' fire compound he was attempting to perfect. It was a liquid that burned without visible smoke, and he had decided to see how long it would take to burn through the solid wood of the table. He was glad he hadn't used too much, since it most likely would have burnt through the floor to the café below, and in to Mrs. Hudson's flat. That wouldn't have been an easy thing to get away with.

Sherlock went to the front room, and pushed every item on the desk against the wall, uncaring that he spilled documents and objects to the floor. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and caught the faint breathy snores of his doctor. John hadn't woken up yet.

Sherlock went for is equipment, lifting the heavy microscope easily, managing to avoid tripping over the cord as it snaked around his feet. He set up his equipment on the desk, everything he needed to analyze the slides he'd managed to get from the traces of the film on Donovan's glove. The substance had been difficult, and he'd noticed signs of accelerated cellular degeneration at the pathology labs before his concentration went to hell. It was an organic compound of some kind, and it had a nagging sense of familiarity to it.

Sherlock dug out the samples from his still wet coat, and began prepping slides. It was dark out now, the days short and the light dull. He added wood to the fire, and turned on everything, rearranging the lamps in the room to give him better light.

He went to work, the tasks and tests so habitual he moved on muscle memory. He'd stop, take some notes, and go back to peering through the scope. Every slide he saw, every test, drove him closer to a conclusion he didn't want to acknowledge. He recognized parts of the compound, the synthetic portions that resisted breaking down. The organic elements were nearly past the point of recognition. If it had been anyone else, they may not have known what they were seeing. A lesser man would have thought the samples and slides contaminated. Sherlock saw the whole of it, and he sucked in a deep breath. He knew this substance well.

The killer at the nursery hadn't been murdered. He had been killed by the substance, yes. But it wasn't murder in the strictest sense. What Sherlock was seeing was a drug, one that broke down quickly when exposed to warm temperatures. If maintained at freezing or just below, it was stable and easily stored for long periods of time. But the second it was consumed, or left for longer than a couple of hours at room temperature, it broke down to its separate elements. If administered orally, injected, or placed on skin to be absorbed, it acted fast. Incredibly fast. With unpredictable and sometimes violent results, and could kill you if the dosage wasn't perfectly tailored to the person taking it. But if you got the right dosage, the effects were euphoric, addictive, and intensely psychedelic.

The drug was one that Sherlock had seen years before, while working on a drug ring case for Lestrade. It was once called Winter's Night. It was an amalgamation of an organic hallucinogen derived from a type of morning glory flower, _Turbina corymbosa _or _Rivea corymbosa, _'The Christmas Vine', and a combination of cocaine and LSD. It was incredibly difficult to make and preserve, and the going price of it had been exorbitant. Due to the highly addictive nature of the drug, and the fact it had to be stored cold, it had been sold during the winter months, at clubs and private parties.

It had been a scourge in London during the Christmas season years ago, and Sherlock had known that if someone out there had learned to stabilize it, perfect it for mass production, it would have exploded across the nation. An unstoppable nightmare. One he knew personally.

He had worked the case for Lestrade, years before he met John. And in the process of doing so, had taken Winter's Night. It had become an obsession, and he knew it was against all odds that he hadn't destroyed himself working that case. He had the experience to tailor the drug to his individual metabolism, and it had worked to perfection. And he had been consumed by it.

Sherlock had studied it, experimented with the drug. And he had found the way to stabilize it. He had been so tempted, in his addiction, to produce it for himself. And he had nearly succumbed.

Sherlock felt sick, his stomach rolling. He pushed away from the desk, staggered to the hearth. He rested his hands on the mantle, and stared into the flames. He closed his eyes, and tried to settle his racing heart. He had escaped the drug's hold. Mycroft had roped him in after the crime boss who was manufacturing the drug was found dead in the river. The case had been closed, the drug flow had stopped, and Sherlock imploded. Mycroft had dragged him home, kicking and screaming, and forced sobriety on him. It had taken weeks, but he had come out from under it.

He had emerged scarred, stricken, and vulnerable. He had used other drugs on and off in the years since, but never Winter's Night. He had never thought to be confronted by that most dangerous and delightful poison again.

Someone out there in London was attempting to perfect Winter's Night. Was trying to make it stable enough for mass production. The nursery must have been where they were growing the flowers for the drug. And something had gone wrong.

Sherlock pushed off from the mantle, and went to the window. His violin was in its case below the sill, and he bent over, pulling it free. He put it to his chin, grabbed the bow, and closed his eyes. The music came, and he let it flow, trying to settle his mind and body.

* * *

The jet landed at Heathrow, taxiing in at a private hangar. The night was young, the air cold and wet. Rain storms had buffeted the small jet as it entered British airspace, making the last few minutes of flight interesting.

Silas Williamson exited the aircraft, glad to be free from the small space, his men filing out behind him. His cars were waiting, all bearing the diplomatic flags of the United States. The State Department had a vehicle waiting as well, and the rear door opened, a thin, young man getting out. His contact in London for the duration of his stay.

Williamson went straight to his contact, one brow raised. He had no time for pleasantries. He had a rogue agent to hunt.

"Sir." The young man stammered, eyes incapable of meeting his for longer than a second. "Your residence has been set up according to your specifications. Diplomatic credentials are assigned to you and your team."

"Good. And what of the Iceman?" Williamson demanded.

"Mr. Holmes is expecting you at your earliest convenience, sir." He gulped, and handed over a slim package. "Which I think means now."

"He hasn't changed, I see. Good, that means we should have little trouble." Williamson put the package under his arm, and walked away. He signaled to his men, and they allotted themselves in the vehicles, two with him, the others to their residence to begin the search.

He would greet his counterpart at MI6, see how much Holmes was hiding, and then work around him. If he was willing to cooperate, then this mission shouldn't last longer than a week. If Mycroft Holmes decided to give him trouble, it still shouldn't take longer than a week, but Britain would be short one spymaster.

* * *

Violet sat on Anthea's bed, eating the British equivalent of a hamburger, remote in the other hand, scrolling through channels on the TV.

"Violet, you're getting crumbs on the duvet." Anthea murmured absently, holding two earrings up, comparing them in the mirror over her vanity. She had to leave soon, something or other about an important guest stopping by to see Mycroft. Violet hadn't been interested, automatically bored. If she wanted to know, all she had to do was hack MI6 later, get all the deets.

"Sorry." She mumbled around a mouth full of burger, standing up and getting crumbs on the carpet instead. "And who names things here anyway? Who thought up 'duvet'?"

"I believe that was the French, dear. I'm sorry about this, we weren't told our guest was arriving until after I invited you over." Anthea chose the pearls, a good choice, and picked up her heels.

"No problem. I'll just hide up here." Violet found a good show, something or other about clones living separate lives. Sexy chick played all the roles.

"You do that." Anthea laughed softly, kissing Violet on the cheek. "I don't believe our guest would appreciate family hour at the Holmes' household."

"I have that effect on most people." Violet said, giggling.

"I believe that effect to be genetic, dear. I'll be back." Anthea waved at her, leaving her room, closing the door behind her.

Violet jumped back up on the bed, bouncing, and she turned up the TV. John usually watched crap TV, and Sherlock never watched. He would catch the news on occasion, and if a trash show was on in the morning while John was up and about, he would spend hours correcting people's grammar. She never got a chance with the remote anyways, so she was going to enjoy herself. Mycroft had all the premium channels, too.

She cheered when crazy blonde clone smacked the smart ass brunette clone, completely forgetting she should probably be quiet.

* * *

Mycroft looked up as Anthea came in his public office, dressed differently than she had been earlier. He raised a brow, seeing the signs, and huffed quietly in annoyance. Violet must be here then.

"I trust she knows better than to interrupt?" Mycroft said, ignoring the glare Anthea tossed his way.

"Does Greg know the same?" Anthea quipped, and he found himself grinning. Rarely did she show her claws, but she had them for certain. She smiled back at him, checking her mobile.

"The Vicar is three minutes out, sir. Anything you want from me?" Anthea asked, standing at his side in front of his desk.

"Watch him. The usual." Mycroft murmured. "Watch his people."

"Of course." Anthea left, heading for the front of the house. She would greet their guests, and bring them to Mycroft.

He would greet them here in his public office, not the one adjacent to the bunker under the house. He felt it best not to broadcast where he really did business.

* * *

Anthea waited patiently in the foyer beside the stairs, accustomed to greeting high priority guests. Though never one with such an _interesting_ profile. Silas Williamson was the top rated trainer, field section chief, and now Director for Special Operations for the CIA, and he had a perfect field record. Not to mention he was supposed to be a heartless bastard.

Anthea wasn't intimidated at all. She had been working for Mycroft Holmes the last five years.

She heard the cars pull up at the curb, and straightened her jacket. The guards stationed outside the doors opened them wide, admitting Williamson and two escorts. She quickly evaluated the escorts, dismissing them as the standard CIA field officers. Deadly, but no more than she. Easily handled.

Williamson looked exactly like his pictures, and she saw him evaluating her as she did the same to him. He was carrying a slim folder case under his arm, and there was a spattering of rain drops in his dark brown hair. It was streaked with grey at his temples, and he had a few lines near his eyes, but he was in his prime, and moved like it. He was handsome, in that typical American fashion, but no more than average. Enough to charm, but not enough to be remembered unless he chose. Middle age was running away from Silas Williamson.

She saw him make his initial judgment of her, meet her eyes, and then rethink his assessment. She nodded, unperturbed that he saw past her usual secretary façade. He saw the former field agent, and his eyes tracked to her waistline, where her gun was hidden under her jacket.

"Welcome to London, Director Williamson. You may call me Anthea. If you would follow me please, Mr. Holmes is looking forward to seeing you." Anthea greeted the CIA officer, smiling pleasantly.

"Thank you, Anthea. What a lovely name." Williamson shook her hand, a bland but polite smile on his face. "Do lead on, I prefer not to drag this out."

Anthea smiled, eyes shuttered, and she waved graciously down the hall. He followed her, his two men a few steps behind. She knew they were armed, by the way they were not touching their left arms closer to their torsos. Shoulder holsters.

She cast her eyes over Williamson, and saw no sign of a weapon. That meant nothing, really. He most likely had a knife on him somewhere, or a small caliber gun in an ankle holster. Not to mention he would be exceedingly proficient in hand to hand combat. He had been a trainer at the Farm for a decade.

Anthea knocked on the door of Mycroft's public office, before opening the door and waving the men in before her. She had enough to form a profile on Williamson once their guests left. It was the spymaster's turn, now.

She took up her station as she shut the door, in the rear of the room. Mycroft would be able to see her, and she him, their guests between them. Williamson's men stayed at his back as he greeted Mycroft, slightly off to the side. Anthea watched them all, acting for the entire world like an aide and not a highly trained MI6 operative ferociously loyal to her own director.

She didn't just answer the phones, or get him coffee. It was her job to protect him, no matter the threat. And she would, even if it cost her life.

* * *

"Have a seat, Silas." Mycroft welcomed Director Williamson in, waved him to a chair. "Can Anthea get you anything?"

"Scotch, no ice. Thank you." Williamson sat, folder on one knee. "Let's get to business. I want my rogue officer. I will get her."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a reserved look on his face. He ran his eyes over the CIA director, and saw from the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the way he held his jaw, and the steely glint in his eyes that Williamson was deadly serious, and only here as a courtesy call.

"And I have been ordered to assist. We have not found her. There has been no sighting of Mary Morstan since the night Blackwood Manor exploded."

"I have little faith in your 'assistance', Mycroft. From all accounts, your brother and his lover were the last people to see her. Seems the easy solution was to not let her go." Silas snapped, a thread of anger evident in his voice. He didn't react to Anthea placing his drink in front of him on the desk.

Mycroft took the scotch Anthea offered him, scenting it before taking a sip. He swirled it, and held the glass, ignoring Silas' outburst. No one raised their voice to him, not in his own house.

"Mary Morstan was instrumental in stopping Jaime Moriarty, and saving hundreds of lives that night. She risked her life to stop a madwoman." Mycroft murmured slowly, ignoring Silas as the other man tightened his jaw. "And detaining her was not a priority at the time. Nor was it my brother's job to arrest her."

"And it was your brother who theorized she blew up CAM Tower, and killed Magnussen. She is an active threat, and a liability to both our governments. Let's cut the bullshit, Mycroft Holmes. Your brother, his lover- who happens to be her former fiancé- let Morstan go, and I believe they know where she is. They will tell me."

"Will they now?" Mycroft kept his cool, and let nothing slip past the mask. He had suspected for weeks now that both Sherlock and John knew where Morstan was. What Mycroft didn't know was why they were hiding her, and even more so, why she hadn't fled the country. It would have been the smart move, and Mary Morstan was a smart woman. Quick tempered, but intelligent. She shouldn't still be here. Something was keeping her here, in London.

Mycroft had a tail on Sherlock and John, had for years. And while they had routinely evaded his surveillance teams in the past, Dr. Watson was doing it with steady frequency, twice a week for the last several weeks. As if he was visiting someone. Violet would disappear with him, and Mycroft had yet to figure out where they were going.

"Yes they will. I was guaranteed your cooperation, and I'll have it. They can talk to me, tell me where she is, or I will go through all of you to get her. I will not hesitate to destroy every one of you."

Williamson stood abruptly, and opened the folder case. Mycroft watched, ice filling his veins, as the CIA officer pulled out a stack of photos.

"Your brother, Sherlock. Drug addict, part time spy, and now a sexual deviant. Regularly breaks the law to solve cases. Sociopath, and loose cannon." He tossed a large glossy photo down on the desk, and Mycroft caught it as it slid across the surface to him. It showed Sherlock, taken at a distance, picking the lock on a door of a warehouse or business, John at his back, gun out.

"Doctor John Watson, formerly of the British Army, Captain. Now he's a pervert too. Almost tipped the scales on alcoholism a few years back when your brother faked his death. Adrenaline junkie. Decent enough doctor, but has a violent streak, and isn't afraid to kill to protect his partner. He's done so a few times already. I'd call him a psychopath."

Another photo was tossed his way, one of John walking outside of his flat, Violet on his arm.

"And may I offer congratulations on the recent discovery of your niece? Your dead brother's daughter, I believe. Wasn't he that serial killer flaying women alive in the English countryside several years ago? And she's a real peach, that one. Breaks the law as soon as she wakes up in the morning. Hacker, been active for over fifteen years. Nothing sticks, but we know who she is, and what she can do."

"Excellent photography. My compliments to whoever took these. What is your point?" Mycroft carefully put his glass down, knowing full well that Williamson was attempting to intimidate him. He'd heard worse, from his own people no less.

"My point is simple. No blackmail, no threats of revealing anything, no extortion. I know who you care about, I know their habits, their schedules, and their weaknesses. I can get to them at any time. And I will remove them all from this world if I don't get what want." Williamson picked up his glass, drank down the scotch, and slammed the crystal down on the desk. "I don't care what country I'm in, you cannot stop me."

"And I will start with him." He tossed one last picture, and Mycroft felt his mask slip. It was a picture of Greg, in a wheelchair being rolled out of the hospital to his Jaguar. The air in his lungs seared him, ice cold and necrotic, and his heart thumped loudly in his ears.

"You touch any of them, I will kill you." Mycroft whispered his eyes locked on Williamson's. "I have killed for worse than you."

"I'm not your psychopath big brother. Your masters have tied your hands, Mycroft Holmes. And I've got your balls." Williamson left the photos on the desk, tossing the case on top of them. He nodded his head, a pleasant smile back on his face.

"Full cooperation, Mycroft. Everything you have. I will be visiting your brother soon, and he had better answer my questions. I'll see myself out." He turned away, not bothering to hear Mycroft's reply.

Anthea opened the door, and she escorted the Americans from the room. Mycroft breathed out, struggling to maintain his equilibrium. That arrogant bastard had threatened Gregory, his family. He would never do so again.

He would assist in the search for Mary Morstan, as ordered, but no more. And he would attempt to keep Sherlock in line, no matter how futile such an endeavor was. Williamson had made a fatal mistake. By threatening his people, threatening the man he loved, Silas Williamson just lost the best asset he had on British soil in his hunt for Mary Morstan.

And if Williamson made one aggressive move towards any of Mycroft's family, he was well prepared to start a war to protect them.

…


End file.
